


O Guiding Light

by Radclyffe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:48:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 25,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27824797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radclyffe/pseuds/Radclyffe
Summary: John is back at Baker Street, and back in the old routine living with Sherlock Holmes, or as much as he can be as parent of a lively not-quite-three year old. But is Sherlock about to rock the boat? And what exactly is up with Mycroft?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 100
Kudos: 97
Collections: 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	1. Tis The Season

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Miss Davis 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge Prompts - last year I made a mistake and didn't realise it was meant to be ficlets. This year - no mistake.

Evenings like these are so very few and far between John reflected as he settled in his chair, a cup of tea by his side and the remote in his hand. Rosie had gone down easily, worn out by her day at nursery. Mrs Hudson was at her book club; Sherlock was off on a case with Hopkins hours ago and John had Baker Street to himself.

He'd collected Rosie from nursery around five and picked up a takeaway on the way home. Now in the sitting room of 221b, replete and relaxed he was looking forward to a night of crap telly, maybe even a Bond film, without a running commentary from you know who.

John threw another log on the fire. He checked it first, Sherlock had some kind of experiment going with the woodpile outside the back door. After John had accidentally incinerated a vital specimen a few weeks back during the sudden cold snap, and had been subjected to harsh words and reproachful looks for almost a week, he had insisted that the detective mark all logs available for burning with a splash of white paint. So far, the system was working.

John turned on the TV and flicked through the channels. _Ah, ‘Tomorrow Never Dies’, Brosnan, still, never mind._

He opened his newspaper at the crossword and peeled the wrapper from a Fry’s Chocolate Cream that he had purloined from Sherlock’s secret stash. _This was the life_ , he thought as he let the dark chocolaty sweetness melt on his tongue, one eye on the film as he turned his attention to seventeen down.

******

 _Blasted Mycroft is stealthier than a cat_ , was John’s first thought when he opened his eyes and saw the British Government ensconced in Sherlock’s chair. John’s second thought was, _Can’t he blooming well knock like everyone else_. His third thought, when his eyes finally caught up with his brain was _Blimey, he looks rough_.

It doesn’t take a lot to make a man usually so pristine in his appearance look dishevelled, particularly to someone who knew Mycroft as well as John did. Agreed the doctor had seen the bureaucrat in a worst state than this evening, but only twice before and then under the most extreme circumstances. John could hardly pinpoint what made him think it tonight. Was the tie a fraction of a millimetre askew? Was there the tiniest speck of dirt on a cuff? Sherlock would be able to read it all in an instant. As it happened John was forced to use words.

“You all right there Mycroft? Didn’t hear you come in!”

Mycroft gave his usual smile reserved for indulging the hard of thinking.

“Quite all right thank-you.”

John cursed himself for stating the obvious.

“You, here for Sherlock? Only he’s out.” There he went again.

“I am aware, he has just left Scotland Yard. I anticipate his arrival within the next seven minutes, allowing for the road works on the Charing Cross Road.”

“Can I get you anything while you are waiting?” John asked, feeling in need of a drink himself, “Tea? Something stronger? Scotch?”

Mycroft hesitated briefly. _A grateful client had gifted his brother a sixteen-year-old Lagavulin, not two weeks ago, was it too much to hope for?_

“Whisky. Why not? After all, tis the season...”


	2. Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to 221b and finds and unwelcome visitor

Sherlock Holmes sat back in the cab as it swung round the corner into Baker Street, a satisfied smile on his lips and the air of a consulting detective with a case well solved. The murder enquiry that Hopkins had brought him in on had really been quite intriguing with the deceased (minus his head, several ribs and various other appendages most notably the right forearm) left at the scene of the crime while the remainder was scattered to the four corners of the city. Like an anatomical jigsaw puzzle, Sherlock had pieced together the corpse, ultimately identifying the perpetrator when a big toe turned up at a bootmaker’s in Chigwell. _Yes, easily a seven_ , Sherlock thought, he could hardly wait to tell John about it.

The only consolation in John’s limited availability to attend cases with him, was the pleasure of knowing that John was at home, _their home_ , waiting to be regaled with the news of Sherlock’s triumphs.

It only took four short steps from the kerb to the front door of 221 to put a damper on the evening, that, and brief glance at the doorknocker.

_Mycroft!_

Silently Sherlock let himself into the house and crept up the stairs, skilfully avoiding the creaky step. Bypassing the sitting room, he went straight into the kitchen where John was carrying out an inspection of their whisky tumblers.

“Good, you’re back, do you remember which of these you used for the mould experiment?”

“The frosted ones.” Sherlock replied automatically.

“I thought so.” John picked up a cut glass tumbler and polished it before putting it on a tray.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re brother’s here, and frankly he looks like he could do with a drink.” John replied, taking the bottle of Lagavulin from the cupboard.

“No not that one.” Sherlock said quickly, a note of alarm in his voice. “We’ll never be rid of him. Give him the cooking whisky,” he added, reaching for the Bells.


	3. Chilly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft enlists his brother's help, but why the mystery?

The uneasy truce between the brothers that had enabled them to work together during the events leading up to and during the Sherringford ordeal had not last long after its conclusion. It had vanished the instant Mycroft had recovered his equilibrium.

 _Had it made the man more human?_ John might have thought so once, but in truth the jury was still out.

Sherlock shrugged off his coat and followed John and the tray of whisky through to their sitting room. Sherlock noted that his brother was sitting in his chair but made no effort to move him, instead he went over to the table and sat there, all the while observing his sibling and deducing the state of affairs.

_Shaved himself this morning, slight nick just below his ear, where was Reginald, Mycroft’s barber? Tie askew, pocket square folded to an angle of 74_ _°, sock garter, left calf, undone – standards slipped beyond imagination, and surely that can’t be… yesterday’s shirt??!_

“Is it Father?” Sherlock asked softly.

“No.” Mycroft answered quite definitely.

“Mummy?”

“No.”

“Not…”

“Sherlock… please!”

“What is it then?”

Mycroft pointedly looked at John. John settled himself more firmly in his chair, picked up his newspaper and studied his crossword intently. He was going nowhere.

“We have discussed this before, Mycroft. You know you can speak freely in front of John.”

Mycroft looked at John, took a sip of his whisky, pulled a face and said, “Exceptionally mild for the time of year.”

As if on cue a thin wail emerged from the baby monitor – John scowled _just as it was getting interesting._

John looked at Sherlock, Sherlock looked at John, Mycroft looked at his fingernails. The wail was gathering momentum, John knew the drill, there would be full-blown crying that only a cuddle, a tuck and a story from daddy would settle.

John glanced at the ceiling wondering if Mycroft had some sonic device that he had beamed into the room above to produce the required interruption.

John looked at Sherlock, sometimes when he was in an obliging mood Sherlock could be prevailed upon to provide the necessary comfort. Sherlock looked at the fire, obviously tonight was not such an occasion. Mycroft continued to examine his fingernails.

“Don’t start without me.” John said, abandoning the paper and getting up out of his chair.

_Fat chance,_ John thought as he quickly climbed the stairs to the little bedroom that had been carved out of the loft space on the second floor.

Through the baby monitor they heard John’s soothing tones as he cooed to his daughter, “what’s all this noise about?” Mycroft reached over to the machine and switched it off.

******

When John came back downstairs, Mycroft was taking his leave, whisky untouched on the mantelpiece. Sherlock had migrated from the dining chair to the couch and was now supine, eyes closed, hands in prayer position.

“You do understand the urgency, Sherlock, time is of the essence.”

Sherlock cracked open one eye, “Have no fear Mycroft, even as we speak, I am on the case.”

“Good night then Sherlock, John”

Mycroft inclined his head, gave his usual terrifying smile and was gone, leaving the sitting room, despite the roaring fire, feeling rather chilly.


	4. Deck the Halls

John could tell he would get nothing out of the detective that night. After Mycroft left, he banked up the fire and washed the glasses, pausing only momentarily before polishing off the contents of Mycroft’s. It was a shame to waste cheap whisky; hopefully, whatever was wrong with Mycroft wasn’t contagious.

He made himself a camomile tea to go to bed with and took a last look round the sitting room. He’d heard Mrs Hudson come in a while ago and knew that all was well there. He noticed that at some point Sherlock had removed his socks and shoes. Looking at those long bony feet always did something that made John’s insides go soft. He swiftly pulled the throw off the back of the couch and placed it over them, Sherlock didn’t move a muscle.

“Night then.”

There was no reply.

******

John kept early hours these days, the consequences of having a small child and a steady job, even if it was only part time.

Today, being a Friday, was non-working day but John was already up, washed and dressed and sat at the table with Rosie as he cut her toast into soldiers when Mrs Hudson gave her customary call. There was no sign of Sherlock, the couch was empty, but his coat was still hanging in the hall.

“Woo-hoo!”

“Nana!” Rosie called in reply, giving her adopted grandmother her most winning smile, “I have han heg!”

“Aren’t you a lucky girl.” Mrs Hudson agreed, before sitting down and accepting the cup of tea that John offered. “John dear, I just wondered if you had plans for today.”

“Not particularly,” John replied, “Just the usual life changing things, the washing, cleaning, shopping kind of stuff that doesn’t get done by the fairies despite what some people who live here might think.”

Mrs Hudson laughed at that.

John continued, “Why do you ask?”

“Only there is a children’s craft day down at the church hall, making decorations, all ages and then we’re going to decorated the big room ready for the Christmas Bazaar tomorrow, I thought Rosie might enjoy it.”

“Well that would be lovely, Mrs H,” John was relishing the thought of getting on with his jobs without Rosie’s assistance but was aware he was passing the buck, “If she won’t get under your feet, that is.”

“Oh no, Marie is bringing Poppy and Skye, it will be fine.”

John was not entirely sure which of Mrs Turner’s grandchildren were Poppy and Skye, or if Poppy was actually her poodle, or possibly that was Skye…

He was interrupted from this reverie by Mrs Hudson saying, “Of course you could always come with us, if you’ve nothing better to do.”

John was just about to say he might pop in once he had finished his chores when Sherlock, drawn from his lair no doubt by the sound of pouring, appeared in the kitchen. He bent to give Rosie the briefest of pecks on the top of her head and sat down reaching for the teapot as he did so.

“I am afraid that won’t be possible, Mrs Hudson, John is require to accompany me to Scotland Yard on urgent of business.”

“Am I?” John kept the slight query in his voice. He would much rather be involved in a case than do crafts at the church hall, but Sherlock imperious attitude to John’s timetable did annoy him. 

“Certainly.” Sherlock announced, helping himself to a piece of John’s toast.

“Apparently I am busy after all.”

“Never mind.” Mrs Hudson knew better than to come between her boys and a case, “You’ll have a lovely time won’t you Rosie, helping Nana deck the halls.”


	5. Shepherd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has some surprising news for John.

John refreshed the tea and made himself another couple of pieces of toast in the sure and certain knowledge that one would be purloined by Sherlock as soon as he put it on the plate. John had discovered quite early on that Sherlock had little interest in food unless it was someone else’s, and that loading up his own plate was a good way of keeping the detective fed. He had wondered at the start of the terrible twos whether Rosie was beginning to mimic Sherlock’s fussy eating habits, particularly when it came to vegetables but fortunately he had now managed to wean her onto peas, carrots and the occasional mouthful of broccoli. It was a pity the same couldn’t be said for Sherlock.

Rosie had finished her breakfast and was now wriggling to get down. John took her upstairs to get her dressed and ready for her excursion with Mrs Hudson. In the early days of parenthood, he, and Mary, had determined not to dress their little one in gender stereotypical colours. However, Rosie did show a marked preference for pink, and now purple. John mused to himself, as he dressed his daughter in her mauve dungarees, on what that said about nature versus nurture.

Once Rosie was safely delivered to Mrs Hudson with teddy, and a small bag containing a spare top and a couple of snacks, John made his way back upstairs to the sitting room where Sherlock was now dressed but nowhere near ready to go out. He seemed to be pithering around with John’s laptop and his own phone and still had nothing on his feet, so despite his assurances to Mycroft (and John assumed the morning’s proposed activity was someway related to Mycroft’s visit the previous evening), Sherlock did not appear to be acting as if time was of the essence after all.

“Scotland Yard then?” John addressed his curiosity as a question, “Mycroft brought you a case?”

“After a fashion.” Sherlock replied not moving his eyes from the screen in front of him.

“We’re not setting off then. Only usually when there’s a case, we don’t tend to hang about.” This last sentence was not completely accurate, there had been plenty of cases that involved ‘hanging about’ but this was generally done by John on his own.

“I am afraid we are being forced to make a social call," Sherlock's voice dripped with distain, "we are going to congratulate Lestrade on his forthcoming nuptials.”

 _Nuptials_? John’s face did a thing until he remembered that was a posh word for wedding.

“Greg’s getting married? I didn’t even know he was courting.”

Not that it was anyone’s business but his own, but John had always found the Inspector’s matrimonial status something of a challenge to keep up with. He and his wife had separated and reconciled at least three times to John’s knowledge before finally divorcing during Sherlock’s ‘absence’ and there had been a very brief rapprochement even after that. However, Greg had certainly been single at the time of John’s own foray into matrimony, hence the lack of a ‘plus one’ at the reception. John’s, admitted hazy, memories of the officer after the arrest of the Mayfly Man had him a) getting spectacularly drunk and b) not getting off with any of the bridesmaids, bar staff or caterers that he had subsequently approached.

John had gathered the impression that there was someone in Greg’s life shortly after the nightmare of Sherringford. He had always been good for a pint after the conclusion of a case, or when Sherlock had even excelled his own high standards of being impossible to live with, but Greg had been surprisingly elusive and that could not have been solely down to the massive amount of paperwork the incident had generated, and if so, surely not two years on.

“I understand that it is something of whirlwind affair.”

“So, you didn’t know anything about it?” John asked, an eyebrow arched in surprise.

Sherlock looked up, and John noticed that his expression was a little shame faced. “I had an inkling, although I will admit the identity of Lestrade’s intended has taken me somewhat by surprise.”

“Do you know anything about them?”

“More than I care to, as will you when you hear that the name of the lady is Ms Dinah Shepherd.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands up, I admit the surname of Lestrade's fiancée is a total cop out in the grand scheme to once again use the prompt for the day as the last word of the chapter, but it has been a long week,


	6. Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John pay a call

Having made his announcement with a dramatic flourish Sherlock continued, “I will leave you cogitate,” with that he disappeared into his room, John presumed to get ready to go out.

John finished clearing away the breakfast things, loaded and set off the dishwasher (a recent import to life at 221b). Seeing that there was no sign that Sherlock was going to be making a move anytime soon John gathered up his washing and took it down to the laundry room, that had been carved out of the kitchen of 221c after the explosion, all the while thinking of Sherlock’s news about Greg.

Surely Sherlock did not mean that Greg was engaged to _the_ Dinah Shepherd.

******

John was well aware who Dinah Shepherd was, he was hardly going to forget Yasmin Lafleur as she had been known in the early days of her career as a Page 3 model. Yasmin had graduated very quickly to the role glamourous assistant, to _The Great Shalmaneser_ , magician and mentalist, married him too. His illusions had stunned the world, with their scale and complexity until in a tragic accident, his act and his life had been cut short when a gun had misfired and an illusion featuring a magic bullet had gone horribly wrong.

John had the idea it hadn’t been Yasmin on stage with her husband that night, that she had been unwell, and her understudy had been there when the accident happened, and that this had been taken as a contributing factor. He remembered all the newspaper articles that appeared at the time; Yasmin was quoted as blaming herself.

It hadn’t been long before Yasmin had reinvented herself as Dinah Shepherd and taken over her late husband’s act, no longer the sidekick in the sparkly leotard and shimmering tights but a stunningly beautiful and sophisticated illusionist. John had seen her once at the London Palladium and like everyone else in the audience had been completely mesmerised, and not just by her tricks. Her performance so outdid anything that The Great Shalmaneser had produced that it was rumoured that it had been Yasmin, or rather Dinah, that had been the mastermind behind the act all along.

It seemed that tragedy rather followed Dinah about, her second husband, the empresario Sir Wilfred Veneering had been murdered on their wedding day. Another of Dinah’ suitors had stood trial for the crime but had been found not guilty. Dinah had married the man within days, but there was speculation that he had been guilty after all as the afternoon of the wedding the man, had shot himself.

 _Was Greg really about to become husband number four?_ John shook his head; _it couldn’t be the same Dinah Shepherd._

******

“Dinah Shepherd?” John asked Sherlock tentatively as they sat together in the back a cab on their way to Scotland Yard.

“What of her?” Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes off his phone where he was tapping out some or other text.

“There’s not some other Dinah Shepherd that I should know about?”

“Shepherd is the 3839th most common surname in the world at present, while the name Dinah is somewhat out of favour these days, I imagine there are a number of Dinah Shepherds in existence.”

“I meant is Lestrade engaged to the Dinah Shepherd, the femme fatale?”

“If by femme fatale.” Sherlock laboured the words, “you mean Dinah Shepherd the woman whose third husband was tried for the murder of her second, then yes, it is the Dinah Shepherd.”

“Blimey.” John’s voice registered his mixture of shock and awe.

“Close your mouth John.” Sherlock snapped, “We’re here.”

They paid the taxi, or rather John did, and made their way into the New Scotland Yard building. Despite the impression Sherlock like to give, he did not have the run of the building and they had to wait for Lestrade to authorise their entrance.

They took the lift to the third floor where the Inspector was waiting for them, looking rather apprehensively at Sherlock as if in anticipation of some scathing comment from the detective.

None came, instead Sherlock put on his widest smile, opened his arms, and said.

“Ah Gervais, we have come to wish you joy.”


	7. Blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to Scotland Yard and a domestic interlude.

In John’s opinion Greg looked rather shell-shocked but he kept quiet and instead joined with Sherlock in congratulating the Inspector, slapping the man on the back. Lestrade appeared relieved at the absence of snark from Sherlock and began to relax. John however was bursting with curiosity and knowing that his flatmate had no use for small talk, took it upon himself to give Lestrade a mild version of the third degree.

“Well, Greg, you dark horse, you’ve kept this under your hat, you lucky dog,” John said as cliché followed cliché; he could tell without looking at him that Sherlock was rolling his eyes.

Lestrade seemed to take John’s comments at face value and broke into proud smile, agreeing with John that he was indeed a lucky dog. The convivial atmosphere was ruined by Sherlock asking.

“So how did you meet your fiancée?”

It was probably not the most tactful question under the circumstances, particularly as the answer was patently obvious but Lestrade seemed prepared for it.

“We met through friends, I was not involved in the investigation into Sir Wilfred’s death, that was handled by the Norfolk Constabulary. I have of course informed my superiors of my relationship with Mrs Beckworth... I mean, Ms Shepherd, er… Dinah.”

Sherlock gave Lestrade a squinty eyed look as a result of this speech, and even John could tell it had the air of a press release.

“We were just saying we must have you and Ms Shepherd round to Baker Street to celebrate.”

 _We were?_ John thought as Sherlock continued. “Just a few drinks and nibbles, so she can meet your friends. How about tomorrow evening as neither of you are working.”

Greg looked uncomfortable, as if he was looking for an excuse but had not thought of one quickly enough.

Sherlock turned to John, “you agree with me, don’t you?”

John was not entirely sure what was going on, Sherlock never willingly took part in social events let alone instigated them. However, he had known Sherlock long enough not to miss a cue when he saw one.

“Absolutely, we insist.”

Greg shifted again, “Who were you thinking of inviting?”

Sherlock was all bonhomie again, “Just Mrs H, Molly, whoever Molly’s seeing at the moment, Hopkins and Donovan if they are free.”

“Not your brother.” John noted Greg’s uneasiness and didn’t blame him.

“Good God no,” Sherlock shuddered, and they all laughed. “He’s in Brussels until Tuesday but he wouldn’t come anyway.”

“All right, thanks. That’s very good of you.”

“Eight o’clock then, 221b.”

Lestrade made his excuses, he was after all at work. Sherlock and John called in on Hopkins, but she had nothing for them, so they made their way home.

“Dinah Shepherd!” John mused once they were settled back in a cab on the way to Baker Street, “Lestrade’s seriously punching above his weight. And what’s all this about drinks? You hate being sociable.”

Sherlock didn’t reply so John went on, “I don’t trust you.”

“You malign me John, Dinah Shepherd fascinates me and I did not wish to wait until Lestrade decided we could meet her.”

******

Once home they went their separate ways, John to finish his usual Friday chores, while Sherlock disappeared out into their small backyard to check on his current experiment. John changed his and Rosie’s beds, unloaded and loaded the washing machine (yet again) and did their Tesco order, he supposed he had better buy some ‘drinks and nibbles’ then. The whole idea of Sherlock planning a social event disturbed John more than he cared to admit, but that wasn’t the only thing. _Had Sherlock really said that Dinah Shepherd fascinated him?_

Mrs Hudson and Rosie were still out, so he made a pot of tea and took his own mug and one for Sherlock outside, he could get some wood and coal in for a fire while he was about it.

It was a grey December afternoon and although it was only just gone two it seemed it would be dark before long. Sherlock was pottering around with various pieces of damp wood he had collected on his walks in the park with Rosie and secreted away under some hessian sacking in a store of his own devising. He was so engrossed in extracting one, examining it closely before returning it to its place that he didn’t notice John’s arrival. John stood for a moment and observed his friend, Sherlock’s nose and the tips of his ears were pink with the cold and he looked frozen but totally enthralled.

“Here.” John said, at what seemed a suitable interval, Sherlock stood up, blinked, and smiled before holding out a hand to take the mug. “What all this then?”

“You may have heard of mycoremediation, John, the role of fungi in restoring the balance to the environment.”

John had, but only from Sherlock.

“The healing properties of fungi and mould have been long observed as I am sure you know, Doctor.”

“Of course,” John replied, “penicillin”

“Is the most well-known yes, but they were a feature of Chinese medicine for centuries before Fleming’s discovery. You will also I am sure be aware of the drastic decline in the world’s bee populations.”

John smiled but said nothing, one could hardly live under the same roof as Sherlock Holmes an not be aware of the dangers bees faced, colony collapse disorder, deformed wing virus, the Varroa Mite and the Lake Sinai Virus were just a few of the threats he could remember from Sherlock’s innumerable lectures on the subject.

“Apis mellifera are susceptible to a wide range of pathogens, including a broad set of viruses. I have recently been reading an excellent work by a professor of epidemiology in the United States who had trialled the use of a compound made from wood-rotting fungi to treat the most harmful of viruses to attack the honeybee. Did you know John, that in trial it reduced the incidence of deformed wing virus by over eighty percent and had the most positive impact…”

John let the words flow over him as he sipped his tea, once more marvelling at Sherlock’s brilliant mind and the scope of his knowledge. This was more the Sherlock he knew and loved, waxing lyrical about some scientific research he was engaged in, not eulogising over some woman.

John stood back and admired his friend, lovingly tending his collection of mouldy logs, which, in the wintry half-light, looked as if they were covered with fluffy white blankets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's experiment is inspired heavily by a piece in Merlin Sheldrake's excellent book Entangled Life.


	8. O Christmas Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More domestic scenes from Baker Street, and the night of the party  
> (I had hoped to get ahead of myself but this chapter rather ran away with itself, I was enjoying myself with the boys at home. Very brief mention of a suicide that happened in the past and off stage if it helps to know that)

By quarter to eight everything was more or less ready.

John had determined that as the soiree was Sherlock’s idea then he should be responsible for making it happen. He had made his usual contribution by cleaning the kitchen and tidying their sitting room but at eleven o’clock he and Rosie had set off to the annual festivities of the Church Christmas Bazaar, where Mrs Hudson was on duty on the cake stall.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, Mrs H.”

“Oh John,” she laughed, “you hum it and I’ll play it.”

The Christmas Bazaar was its usual success, John never ceased to marvel that even in the middle of central London it was possible to buy homemade jam and he purchased a selection. He bought a few other trifles too, some shortbread and mince pies (which he knew had been contributed by Mrs Hudson, but it was for a good cause) and a few handmade chocolates for His Lordship. Rosie had her photo taken with Santa (an investment banker in the City in civilian life) and then they had lunch which was being served in the small hall where Rosie had had her activity time the day before.

John made one last round of the stalls and picked up a few handmade Christmas tree decorations, and a couple of bunches of holly and one of mistletoe. After all, they were hosting an engagement party. Mrs Hudson, whose stall had sold out hours ago, joined them, and they made their way back to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson rubbing her hip a little and saying she would need a nap before the party that evening.

“You’re not the only one Mrs Hudson,” John replied, indicating Rosie who was spark out strapped in her buggy.

******

Back at Baker Street, John gently carried Rosie up the stairs and placed her in the ‘big girl’s bed’ that had been introduced to her room a few months before. John still felt the occasional pang as he placed his sleeping daughter in it, although he noticed today that it did not seem quite so big for her as it had when they first bought it.

Leaving the landing light on, it was already getting dark, John went back downstairs to see what Sherlock had been up to while they were out. _Lost in some experiment and leaving everything to me, no doubt._ John supposed.

In fact, he couldn’t have been more wrong, Sherlock had obviously been very busy indeed. The sitting room windows twinkled with lights, and there was a blanket of cotton wool snow on the mantlepiece and windowsills. Sherlock had also been down in their storeroom in 221C and brought up the Christmas decorations, the skull was wearing his traditional Santa hat and there was tinsel on the bison. Best of all, on the coffee table that had been moved to a site between the sitting room windows was a perfectly proportioned real Christmas tree.

John tracked Sherlock down to the kitchen, he noticed that the Tesco delivery had arrived while he was out but hadn’t been put away, somethings didn’t change after all. Sherlock was standing by the stove, wearing his safety goggles and hazmat gloves holding a thermometer in one hand and a pipette in the other as he slowly added orange juice to a pan of simmering red wine; the air was fragrant with the smell of cinnamon, cloves and star anise.

“Ah John, just in time, come and tell me what you think of this?”

Sherlock put down the thermometer, picked up a spoon and brought a drop of the mulled wine to John’s lips. John blew gently and then tasted it.

“Perfect.” He said.

Sherlock looked relieved, turned off the gas, and said “I will leave it to marinade and heat it again later before our guests arrive. There is so much to do.” He looked beyond John, “Where’s Watson?”

“Having a nap, she was worn out from seeing Santa.”

“I was thinking that she is of an age to take an interest in decorating the tree.”

John agreed they should wait until Rosie woke up and got on with putting away their shopping. He was startled when he opened the fridge to find several plates of canapés and cocktail blinis.

“Did you make these?” John asked suspiciously.

“It is merely a matter combining certain substances in the correct proportions and order, John,” Sherlock sounded defensive, “hardly rocket science.”

“We should have a party more often if it gets you into the kitchen,” John observed, reaching out to snaffle a couple only to received a sharp rap on the wrist from Sherlock who had crept up behind him.

“They are for later, John.”

John was just about to argue for the wisdom of checking everything that Sherlock claimed to be edible when they heard a faint noise from upstairs, Rosie was awake.

******

They spent a pleasant hour decorating the tree, or rather Sherlock did. Rosie was more hindrance than help and John’s bauble placement was not up to Sherlock’s exacting standards, but he did manage to get the lights working. Looking on to marvel at Sherlock’s infinite patience with Rosie he remembered the baubles he had bought at the fair, a silver S for Sherlock, a red R for Rosie and a gold J for himself. He gave these to Sherlock to add to the tree and then put out the holly and rather as an afterthought split the mistletoe into bunches and hung them from the doorways and the light fittings.

When Sherlock and Rosie had finished the tree, John made her some dinner, he was in two minds about her presence at the party and was hoping she would go down before it started. He made himself a sandwich and tried to interest Sherlock in one, as he was sure the detective hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast but Sherlock claimed to be too busy, and disappeared into his bedroom where a few minutes later John heard him tuning his violin. John was amazed.

At six o’clock the doorbell rang, and John went to answer it. At the door was a liveried official looking man holding a cool box.

“Delivery for Mr Sherlock Holmes, from Mr Holmes.” The man announced. John took the proffered cool box warily, generally things that arrived for Sherlock in a cool box did not stand much investigation, but he hardly expected that Mycroft would be sending his brother body parts. Even so, he was relieved when Sherlock opened the box to find a half a dozen bottles of vintage Veuve Clicquot.

“Ah!” Said Sherlock, “the Widow, how singularly appropriate.”

******

By eight o’clock they were ready, Mrs Hudson had arrived early with a plate of cheese straws and the offer to put Rosie down and read her a story so that John could get changed. She seemed to have the magic touch as she appeared fifteen minutes later saying Rosie had gone out like a light.

Molly and her current beau were the next to arrive, Sherlock learnt his name and promptly deleted it, Molly took Simon over to meet Mrs Hudson. Stella Hopkins, Mr Hopkins (who it turned out wasn’t a Hopkins at all but instead called Paul Rowland) and Sally Donovan were the next to arrive. John always had mixed feelings regarding Sally due to her long history of animosity towards Sherlock but had to admit she had been better since his return and was prepared to be generous as it was Christmas.

The evening went on, but of the newly engaged couple there was no sign.

John went over to the Christmas tree where Stella and Sally were talking shop and rather indiscreetly filling in Stella’s husband with the gen on Greg’s new flame. “An open and shut case of suicide, the room was locked from the inside, only his fingerprints on the gun…”

John gathered that they were talking about the death of Major Beckworth, Dinah Shepherd’s third husband.

“Except his parents kicked up a fuss, said that their son was a deeply religious man, would never have committed suicide. That’s when the Guv got involved, especially when the rags took up the story and speculated he was guilty after all… oh hello John.”

John was just about to tell them not to stop on his account when Greg and Dinah finally arrived.

Although John had seen Dinah Shepherd both on television and in the theatre, and could be said to have more than a passing acquaintance with her bosom from his army days he was not prepared for how exquisitely beautiful she was in real life. No wonder Greg was standing there, beaming like a dog with two tails.

Sherlock was ramping up the ‘mine host’ act, introducing Dinah to everyone, making sure they all had a drink. Stella, Paul, Sally and Simon were hitting the mulled wine, while Mrs Hudson and Molly were in the kitchen making snowballs. Sherlock had had at least three and had been persuaded to play some Christmas favourites on his violin (but not to wear the antlers).

Around ten o’clock Sherlock signalled to John and he fetched the champagne and handed everyone a glass.

“A toast, everyone,” Sherlock announced, “to er… Gerald…” he stopped and looked round, “John?”

John took over “To Greg and Dinah! Long life and happiness.”

“Long life and happiness!”

When the cheers died away, Dinah tapped her own glass.

“I just wanted to say a few words, to thank you for making me so welcome in your circle. You will all know that the last few years have not been easy for me, I have played out my personal life on a very public stage, so it means a great deal to me that Gregory and I have friends around us that we can trust. I know that my detractors will say that it is too soon, but just because of three tragic marriages should I spend the rest of my life alone?”

 _The lady doth protest too much._ John thought to himself.

“I’m young, alive, I may be a successful woman, but I too yearn for love and companionship and someone to love me in return, and in Gregory I have found that someone. That’s why we have decided to bring our wedding forward and will be tying the knot two weeks today, I hope you will all join us on our special day.”

Sherlock quickly played a few bars from Wagner's Lohengrin and everyone laughed. He then gave a breath-taking performance of _O Holy Night_ which led to cries of encore.

“Just one more then” Sherlock agreed, “ _Es lebe hutt der Zimmermannsgeselle”_

“Hoch,” Dinah said immediately, under her breath, though Sherlock was close enough to hear her.

“Apologies, _Es lebe hoch der Zimmermannsgeselle_ _._ Or as we know it in England, _O Christmas Tree_.”


	9. Making a List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has a special request of John

The next couple of days passed quietly at 221b. Both John and Sherlock were a little subdued the day after the party, although John put that down to the detrimental effect of the combination of mulled wine, advocaat, and champagne on the human constitution. They did perk up a little after they took their afternoon walk in Regent’s Park which had blown the cobwebs away and Sherlock had been delighted to find another log for his collection.

When John got back from work on Monday evening it appeared that Sherlock had got a case from somewhere. He had his own and John’s new laptop open plus John’s old one despite the fact it was painfully slow and crashed at the slightest provocation. He was tapping away at all the screens while at the same time carrying on an animated conversation in German on his mobile. Rosie, who been collected from nursery by Sherlock an hour ago sat at the table with him engrossed in some colouring while absently munching on some dairylea on toast.

“Are you in tonight?” John asked when Sherlock came off the phone. Sherlock looked at John as if he didn’t quite know who he was or what he was doing there, a look that was always a clear indication that Sherlock’s mind was elsewhere.

“I don’t anticipate leaving the flat, unless I am called upon for a case.” He said after a while, “However I believe that will be unlikely as Hopkins is still tying up the loose ends of the Chigwell corpse and Lestrade is off duty tonight and is intending to spend the evening in the pub…ah I see. He has requested your company.”

John didn’t bother asking Sherlock how he knew this. “You don’t mind keeping an eye on Rosie? I won’t go until she’s asleep.”

“Not at all, Watson is perfectly safe in my hands.”

John had no compunction in leaving Rosie with Sherlock, in the eighteen months since they had returned to live at Baker Street, his flatmate had never once failed to collect her because he was on a case or left her crying because he was lost in his Mind Palace. “Thanks.”

“I will, however, require a full report on your return.”

John laughed, knowing that Sherlock was just as curious to find out more about Greg’s engagement as he was.

******

When John arrived at the Crown and Anchor just after eight, Greg was already sat at a table nursing a pint. John took a moment to observe the man from a distance. If anything, he looked even more dazed than he had the week before.

As John approached the table, he made the universal signal for a drink. Lestrade shook his head indicating the pint in front of him so John went up the bar and just ordered one for himself, before joining Greg at his table.

They exchanged a few pleasantries but neither man was much for small talk, so the conversation turned quickly to Lestrade’s forthcoming marriage.

“Well then,” John said, wheeling out yet another cliché, “not one to let the grass grown under your feet, are you?”

Greg didn’t seem to notice. “It was Dinah’s idea,” he replied, “she doesn’t believe in long engagements.”

“Not much time to get the thing together,” John observed, “Less than a fortnight. What you going for? Quick trip to the register office?”

“That’s Dinah’s department, she’s the one whose opinion matters.”

“Don’t you have a say in things?”

“Not really my scene. All I have to do is organise my whistle and flute and the ring, and I already have those taken care of… oh and one other thing, which is where you come in.”

“Me?” John asked, wondering what the policeman was about to ask.

“Yes, I was wondering, well, if you would be my best man?”

“Me?” John repeated, rather taken aback.

“Yes you, we’ve been through a lot together the last few years, it would be good to have you at my side.”

"Well, Sherlock’s the expert.”

“I don’t want an expert; I want a mate.”

“Cheers then Greg, I’d be honoured. Let’s drink to that.”

Greg went up the bar to get them both another pint, John watched him go. _For a man on the brink of matrimony Greg didn’t look very happy,_ he thought, _but then who was he to judge? Maybe, now that he had been elevated to the status of best man, he should ask the awkward questions._

Greg came back from the bar with their drinks and took a long draft. John licked his lips, took a deep breath and launched.

“You are sure about this, aren’t you Greg, you haven’t known Dinah very long to be making this kind of commitment.”

“Dinah is a wonderful woman;” Greg replied, “I’d be mad not to marry her.”

“I agree, but couldn’t you just enjoy being engaged for a while longer?”

Greg looked shocked, “What? Dinah is a tour de force, John, you don’t stand in her way, when she wants something she just goes right on and gets it. I just can’t believe that she’s settling for me.”

John tried again “You have talked to her, Greg, given her a clue what its like being a copper’s wife.”

Greg visibly relaxed, “Yes, she’s not worried about that, Dinah has her own career and leads a very busy life. That’s one of the reasons she wants to get married before Christmas, while she has a break in her schedule.”

John had the feeling he was missing something, but frankly he’d done enough talking affairs of the heart for one average Englishman, and he was sure Greg felt the same.

“That’s all right then.” John said with an air of finality, “Twelve days, doesn’t give us much time to get things organised.”

He reached in his jacket pocket and produced the little notebook he always carried around for interesting cases, and a pen.

“What are you doing?” Greg asked.

“What does it look like?” John replied, “I’m making a list.”


	10. Candle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude.

It was no small thing for Sherlock Holmes to voluntarily enter the portals of the Diogenes Club in search of his brother, but this he did on Tuesday morning, five days after Mycroft’s visit to Baker Street. Sherlock knew full well that Mycroft had been nowhere near Brussels at the weekend, that was the long-established code for ‘gone to ground’. But Anthea had contacted Sherlock on Monday concerned that Mr Holmes was still ‘not at his desk’ and asked Sherlock to intervene.

Sherlock made a sign of enquiry to the liveried doorman and was directed, not to the strangers’ room, where speech was permitted and his interviews with his brother usually took place but to Mycroft’s private suite on the first floor. The fact that Mycroft was here, rather than his flat in Pall Mall indicated that something was very wrong indeed.

A footman opened the door to him and indicated that Mycroft was within.

To the untrained eye Mycroft Holmes would have appeared no different to how he usually looked, but Sherlock wasn’t fooled. Although, unlike on the occasion of his visit to Baker Street, Mycroft was impeccably turned out, there were deep shadows under his eyes and his suit hung loosely on his frame. _He must easily have lost a stone_ , Sherlock thought, _oh brother dear, you have got yourself into a pickle._

“You have a plan?” Mycroft asked.

“I do,” Sherlock replied at once, “but not one that will be achieved with you skulking around here. I need you back in the corridors of power.”

Mycroft sighed, “I expected as much, what are your intentions?”

Sherlock gave a full resumé of his plan of action, finishing with, “and I’ll need access to finances, one of those MI5 credit cards will do.”

Mycroft baulked a little but then nodded. “I will have it couriered round to Baker Street in the morning. Now leave me, I have business to attend to.”

Sherlock was almost to the door, he never chose to spend longer in his brother’s company than was completely necessary, but he turned and facing Mycroft said.

“Rest assured, Mycroft, I will triumph.”

For an instant, Mycroft dropped his guard. “Sherlock, methought I was enamour'd of an ass.”

“Really?” Sherlock could not keep the shock from his voice. “Sentiment? At your time of life?”

“Not a mistake I will make again.” Mycroft said firmly, shades of his old self returning, “the game is not worth the candle.”


	11. Dashing Through the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duty calls for DCI Lestrade

Things that DCI Lestrade did not know this morning that he knows now:

  1. Unst is the northern most inhabited island of the British Isles.
  2. There was a submarine base there for most of the latter half of the twentieth century.
  3. There was an ‘incident’ sometime during the 1970s.
  4. A foreign power may or may not have been involved.
  5. People may or may not have died.
  6. This fact may or may not be about to become public knowledge.
  7. The local force may or may not be out of their depth.
  8. A team from the Met have been asked to resource the initial inquiry.
  9. The ideal person to head up this team is DCI Lestrade.
  10. The fact that the aforementioned DCI Lestrade is getting married in twelve days’ time is not sufficient reason to request reassignment.
  11. Refusal to follow the orders of the Commissioner, could be considered insubordination which would result in disciplinary action which in turn could lead to demotion or dismissal and/or loss of pension rights.



“Don’t worry, we’ll have you back in the Smoke within a week” the Chief Constable assured Greg, slapping him on the back. “I am sure your fiancée is more than capable of tying up the loose ends while you’re away. From my experience, us men only get in the way of the organising.”

Greg seethed, he had more than a fair idea of who was behind ‘organising’ his trip to Scotland but instead he said, “I’m holding you at your word, Sir. If I don’t get back in time, it won’t be me you have to deal with.”

The Chief Constable laughed and slapped Greg on the back again. Greg wished people would stop doing that, he was getting a permanently bruised spine.

******

Greg took the tube back to his flat in Streatham, the place was already half in boxes although he and Dinah hadn’t decided where they were going to live after the wedding. _Not in Streatham, that’s for sure,_ Greg thought.

He quickly put together a decent supply of clean clothes for a week away, toiletries, laptop and chargers, and then sat down to telephone his intended.

Dinah was marvellously unfazed by his news, though what she threatened to do to the Chief Constable if he didn’t get back on time was gratifying. His most pressing concern, after abandoning his fiancée for a week, was John’s suit, but Dinah said she would sort everything with the tailor.

Greg tried to reach John on his mobile, but as he guessed John was at the surgery, so he left a series of voicemails with the name and telephone number of the tailor, and other frantic instructions. Greg did not contact Sherlock; he was in no mood to speak to a Holmes.

Greg took a last look round his flat, switching off unnecessary power sockets and emptying the bins before grabbing his case and heading back to Yard for the briefing, and to meet the rest of the team.

******

By quarter to nine that evening, Greg was settling into his berth on the nine-fifteen Caledonian Sleeper from London Euston to Aberdeen. He was glad that Sally had also been assigned to his team, as the other two he didn’t know, a DC he hadn’t worked with before called Marcus, and Amy who was new to the Yard and whom Greg suspected had more to do with covert operations than he cared to investigate.

Sally seemed to be thoroughly entranced with the idea of an overnight train journey and was bouncing up and down the corridor between his and Marcus’ cabin and the one she was sharing with Amy.

“I can’t believe this, I thought we’d fly. This is amazing, like something out of an old film, strangers on a train.”

“Not that one,” Greg said quickly, “they conspiracy to murder.”

“Sherlock would enjoy it then.” Distracted, Sally looked doubtfully at Greg’s suitcase. “Is that all you’ve brought with you? I hope you’ve packed your thermals, I didn’t like the sound of the weather up there, it’s snow all the way once we’re passed Kirkcaldy.”

“Great, that’s all we need.” Greg replied.

******

Much later, lying awake in his bunk in the early hours of the morning, listening to Marcus’ gentle snoring, Lestrade thought of all those inconvenient subjects in the past who had been banished to the far corners of the kingdom as punishment by their lords and masters. It certainly felt like banishment to him, as the train rattled northwards, dashing through the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unst is the northernmost inhabited island of the British Isles, the rest of the list is fiction until number 11.


	12. Visiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock both pay calls.

John listened to the increasing agitated messages from Greg on his phone struggling to keep up. He thought he heard the words ‘posh git’ at least twice but wasn’t sure what Sherlock had to do with the officer’s sudden assignment to the Shetland Isles. Though the later introduction of the adjective ‘meddling’ made John wonder if perhaps it was not Sherlock that had got Greg quite so wound up. There were a number of garbled messages regarding buttonholes, but John couldn’t quite make out if Greg was referring to the suit or possibly to the flowers. His attempts to phone Greg back had been met with at best his voicemail, and more often the unavailable tone.

There had also been one message from a number that John didn’t recognise but from a voice that he did; Dinah asking him to call on her at his earliest convenience to be measured for his suit. John made an arrangement for that afternoon with Dinah’s personal assistant, then sent a text to Sherlock but only received a curt reply that he was out, however Mrs Hudson was happy to collect Rosie and give her something to eat to allow John to go straight to the hotel where Dinah was staying once he had finished his afternoon surgery.

******

The moment he walked into the foyer of the Savoy Hotel John realised he had made a mistake by not going home to change before his appointment. Not that there was anything intrinsically wrong with John’s perfectly serviceable jacket and trousers he wore for work most days, but they were old, and the smell of the surgery lingered, and to top it all, his shirt had come off worse that morning during a close encounter with a five-year-old with suspected tonsillitis. He felt distinctly shabby and out of place in the magnificence of the Savoy.

However, when John gave his name at the reception desk he was expected and directed to Ms Shepherd’s suite on the fifth floor. In the lift, John became even more self-conscious surrounded by sheiks and men in designer suits, but he drew his shoulders back, he was a doctor and a soldier and as good as anyone.

This mindset got him as far as the door of the suite, which, when he knocked, was answered by a smart young man in a butler’s uniform, who asked him to wait as the tailor was just finishing with the other gentleman.

 _Other Gentleman?_ John mused, _perhaps someone on Dinah’s side_.

As John sat and waited, he had a chance to reflect again on the incongruity of Lestrade’s engagement to a woman such as Dinah Shepherd. Greg was a decent enough bloke, as Sherlock had once said, he was a man, and good at it; he scrubbed up well too, but the bottom line he was a pretty ordinary guy and not someone you would associate with the glitz and glamour that accompanied the likes of Dinah or would be at home in a suite at the Savoy. Perhaps it was true when they said opposites attract, and that Dinah had meant what she had said, that after so much tragedy in her life she wanted someone that she could depend on, away from the spotlights and the newspaper columns.

His thoughts were interrupted by a polite cough from the butler who had arrived to inform John that Monsieur Henri was ready for him. As he was led into a small anteroom between the foyer and the sitting room John regretted again that he hadn’t had time to change, he was not entirely sure what _Monsieur Henri_ would make of his Marks & Spencer underpants.

As it turned out John needed have worried, the tailor merely asked him a few questions, mentioned something about semi-bespoke and asked him which side he ‘dressed’. He then handed John a couple of half-made suits to try on behind a screen and then to come back in the one seemed to fit best.

John did this and stood on a plinth while the tailor flitted around taking measurements with a digital tape measure calling out numbers to his assistant. It seemed to be taking an indeterminable length of time, but John noticed, as he turned round at the tailor’s request that the door to the lounge was slightly open and that if he concentrated, he could hear snippets of Dinah’s conversation, and laughter, and man’s voice answering in a deep rumble.

“No… Never…”

The man answered but his voice was too low for John to make out the reply.

“It requires a great deal of artifice to appear so natural…”

More murmuring.

“Since I was a child, why?”

John wished he could catch the man’s replies.

At last Monsieur Henri appeared to be finished and told John he could stand down, just as he heard Dinah clearly say. “Now Sherlock Holmes, I like you, but it wouldn’t do to tell you all my secrets would it?”

John was out of the half-made suit and into his own clothes in double quick time. He heard nothing of what the tailor’s assistant said about final fittings and collection, replying abruptly that the man should contact him through Dinah. John shook him off and made a dash for the connecting doors to the sitting room.

******

John was not at all pleased with sight that greeted him when he entered the room, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. Dinah was curled up on one of the sofas, wearing one of those silky lounge suits he associated with 1930s movie stars, feet bare, her shoes discarded on the floor in front of her. Sherlock was sprawled in an armchair opposite, dressed in his usual Spencer Hart, with his ridiculously tight purple shirt completing the ensemble, he seemed to be sitting at just the right angle to display the long lines of his body, from the plane of his forehead to the tips of his feet, at the best advantage. On the coffee table between them stood the remains of a Savoy Hotel’s renowned ‘afternoon tea’, complete with an almost empty bottle of champagne still in the ice bucket.

“Dr Watson, how wonderful to see you. Please sit down. You will stay for tea. Let me refresh this.” Dinah did not give John the opportunity to refuse, she merely reached over and pressed the service bell.

The butler appeared instantly.

“Carlo, please could you bring fresh tea for Dr Watson, and perhaps another bottle of champagne.”

“Certainly, Madam.” The butler replied and then bent to whisper something in Dinah’s ear. She seemed to frown very briefly before turning to John and Sherlock and smiling.

“Excuse me gentleman, it appears I must have a quick word with the tailor.” With that she stood up, slipped on her shoes, immediately making herself five inches taller, and left the room.

John turned to Sherlock who was studiously looking the other way and said sotto voce.

“What are you up to? And why didn’t you tell me who you were visiting?”


	13. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We catch up with Greg

This had to be the worst assignment of his life, not even taking into consideration that he was getting married in eight days’ time and he should be out with the guys from his division making the most of his last few days of freedom, instead he was marooned on an island that wasn’t even in the middle of nowhere, it was on the chuffing far edge of nowhere. Without a mobile signal 90% of the time to add insult to the injury.

At least the hotel was half decent, though the WiFi was a joke. Lestrade thought they had rather overdone it with the tartan and the stags’ heads gave him the willies, but the roaring log fires kept the place cosy which was a good thing as outside it was cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.

Unfortunately for Lestrade, he was spending most of his time outside.

On top of that, it didn’t even seem much of an assignment. Yes, there were bodies, or at least the remains of bodies. A comprehensive assortment of bones that certainly looked human, but where they had come from and how long they had been there was a mystery. Lestrade thought longingly of Molly Hooper who could tell at a glance that a skeleton was less than six months old. He couldn’t pin the bloke here down to a century.

Had the soviets really crashed a sub here back in 1973 during some kind of NATO/Warsaw Pact busting incident that had resulted in a number of deaths? It seemed impossible that such a thing could have been kept under wraps for over forty years without one of the natives spilling the beans. But there was the problem in a nutshell, Lestrade had never come across a community as tight lipped as the Islanders, despite a three-year stint working in the East End. The Unst folk had been fine when Greg and his team had been taken for tourists but the minute they’d been exposed as police the shutters had come down.

Then there were the local bobbies, who seemed to manage to combine the burning resentment that another force had been brought in with a deep and abiding hatred of the English to make a particularly toxic mix. He didn’t understand what they were saying half the time and he was sure that was deliberate, he’d worked alongside plenty of jocks in London and he’d never had a problem before.

Still another forty-eight hours and he was out of here, back to London, and his bride to be. Dinah was a wonderful woman, Lestrade still couldn’t quite believe she was going to be his wife, his feet hadn’t touched the ground since he’d met her.

Lestrade drained the rest of his coffee, and wrapped his scarf tighter round his neck; he pulled on his gloves, still unpleasantly damp from his earlier trip to the crime scene and made his way outside. It was still sleeting, although the flakes seemed to be getting whiter and more substantial, the sky looked worryingly full of it. 

_It had better hold off for the next couple of days_ , Lestrade thought as he walked up the path to the rendezvous point to meet Donovan, _the last thing he needed, if he wasn’t to get stuck up here, was a snow storm._


	14. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another long one.

Dinah had come back into the sitting room after speaking to the tailor and the butler had brought fresh tea and cakes and the three of them, John, Sherlock and their hostess, had sat and made polite conversation. Or at least John considered his attempts were polite, he thought Sherlock probing Dinah regarding the death of her first husband rather indelicate, but then the detective could never resist an unsolved crime.

Dinah did not appear at all perturbed by his questions. After all, she said, it was a long time ago now, and the press had been far more intrusive than Sherlock.

“You were not on stage that night, Ms Shepherd, why was that?”

“Do call me Dinah.” She insisted, “I was at home recovering from surgery. It was poor timing; our tour should have ended the week before but then an extra date was added, and we were not in the position to cancel.”

“Elective surgery?” Sherlock enquired.

Dinah smiled “Yes. It is no secret that I had had some… augmentation… in the past. I had it reversed.”

John smiled too, remembering the precise nature of that augmentation from Dinah’s glamour modelling days.

“Who did assist your husband for that performance?” Sherlock continued.

“Ferdie, Ferdinand Gautier, he was the technical assistant, but he knew the act well and had gone on for me in the past.”

“He was arrested I believe?”

“The police took him in for questioning, but that was routine, there was nothing to charge him with. The substitute gun jammed, and the real bullet was fired. Death by misadventure.”

“Did you have your suspicions?”

“Of Ferdie? He was stupid good-looking boy who thought he was in love with me… but I never suspected him, no.”

Just as John thought Sherlock was going to begin to interrogate Dinah on the deaths of her second and third husbands, he changed the subject and began to talk of her forthcoming European tour. Dinah responded by becoming quite animated, talking about the breath-taking illusions and spectacles she had planned although giving no secrets away. John thought that at last they were getting a glimpse of the real woman behind the poised façade. However, it seemed Sherlock was unable to stay on his best behaviour for long.

“Your late husband, I mean Sir Wilfred was a great promotor of your talents?”

Dinah sighed and made as if to dab her eyes, “Ah yes, my darling Wilfie, he was my rock after Manny, my first husband died. He had such faith in me, he never wavered, I owe him a great deal.”

“Were you married long?” John asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Dinah frowned, “but I thought you knew, I thought everyone knew, he was killed on our wedding night.”

John cringed, he had been thinking that Sherlock’s questioning was insensitive and there he had managed to go one better. He blushed, apologised and looked at his watch.

“Excuse me, I really must be heading home, I need to get back to put my daughter to bed.” It wasn’t entirely true; Mrs Hudson was more than happy to see to Rosie, but John was grateful for the excuse. He gave Sherlock a meaningful stare. Sherlock looked away, huffed, and then sighed before standing up.

Dinah suddenly became very business-like; she rang the bell and the butler immediately appeared with their coats.

“Dr Watson, Mr Holmes, it was a pleasure to meet you again. I will have my assistant call you regarding your suits.”

John said his goodbyes and turned to go; it was only when heard a peal of laughter that he realised that Sherlock had lingered behind to whisper in Dinah’s ear.

The lift was already occupied so John was forced to wait until they were in the taxi on their way back to Baker Street to ask Sherlock what he was playing at. Sherlock didn’t answer, instead, to John surprise he went into raptures about Dinah.

“What a woman, John, she is superb, magnificent, what courage, what unconquerable spirit in the face of tragedy.”

Sherlock obviously expected John to agree, and seemed put out when his friend said nothing, so he continued.

“John, she fascinates me, I haven’t seen such a splendid example of her sex since we solved that little local difficulty for Mycroft and his employer.”

John was so disconcerted by Sherlock’s remarks that he could think of nothing to say for the rest of their journey home.

******

Not working Fridays did give John the luxury of a three-day weekend but even so there never seemed to be enough hours in the day. John made a mental list of his usual chores, washing, ironing, shopping, cleaning, they all seemed to come round more often than once a week.

John made himself another cup of tea, there was no signs of life from Sherlock’s room and he had parked Rosie in front of ‘Peppa Pig’ on the television just so he could get on with his Tesco order unmolested. As he went through his list, he could hardly believe that it was only a week since he had been ordering vol-au-vents for their impromptu party, so much had happened in the last seven days.

John decided he really couldn’t put off doing Christmas shopping any longer. He had managed to get presents for Rosie and Mrs Hudson online, but he was still stuck for an idea for Sherlock and now he supposed he needed to get a present for Greg and Dinah. He wondered if they had a list anywhere and quickly dialled Greg’s mobile to ask, but again it went straight to voicemail.

John had an unsuccessful shopping trip and both he and Rosie were exhausted by the time they got back to a disappointingly cold and empty flat. The lights were off and the fire unlit. He supposed Sherlock might still be in bed but then noticed his coat and scarf were missing. John had planned a takeaway for the evening, Sherlock didn’t seem to have a case on, which generally meant he could be persuaded to sit and watch the usual Friday night crap telly. He text Sherlock, and then again but only received the one-word reply ‘out’. Not wanting to sound like a nagging wife, John cooked fishfingers for Rosie, and then had the same himself.

******

The weekend dragged for John, the weather was wet and windy, and Rosie was grizzly from being cooped up. Sherlock was elusive, seeming to emerge from his room and escape from the flat at the most opportune moment to give John the slip. As Greg and Sally were on assignment in Scotland, and Hopkins was still (!) tied up with the Chigwell murder, John could only speculate that Sherlock had taken on a private client, but apart from both his and John's laptops being used, there were no signs of a case. He waited up on Saturday night to try to catch Sherlock’s return, but at one-thirty he had given up and gone to bed. Sunday morning, when a bleary-eyed John and a bright and cheerful Rosie had entered the kitchen, Sherlock’s coat was back on its hook in the hall, but John had no idea what time he had come in.

By Sunday afternoon John was ready to climb the walls, the rain had left off a little and he was preparing to take Rosie out for some much-needed fresh air. Normally, Sherlock would join them if he wasn’t engrossed in some experiment, so John knocked on his bedroom door. There was no answer, so after he’d knocked again, John tentatively opened the door.

Sherlock was fast asleep, blankets pulled up round his chin, hair flopping over his forehead and eyes, only the gentle sound of his breathing disturbing the silence of the room. He looked about twelve. John began to retreat, to leave him sleeping, even after all these years, John only invaded Sherlock personal space reluctantly, but as he did so his friend’s eyes flew open.

“John…” he whispered softly, and then sat up suddenly, “What is it? What time is it?”

“Half past two-ish” John replied.

“Damnation, I didn’t mean to sleep, I’m going to be late.”

Sherlock slid out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown. John caught a glimpse of the scars on Sherlock’s back, as he disappeared into the bathroom. He should be used to them by now, but they never failed to shock him.

Sherlock appeared fifteen minutes later, washed and shaved and his hair tamed, the vulnerability John had seen while he was sleeping completely vanished. Sherlock shrugged his coat on and wrapped his scarf around his neck. John bit his tongue not to ask where he was going, if Sherlock wanted to be all mysterious with his coat and his cheekbones again then he could be. But John felt something akin to a blow to the gut when Sherlock stopped at the top of the stairs and said.

“Don’t bother waiting up tonight, it will be a late one… I hope.”

  
  



	15. Jolly

By Monday morning John was seriously fed up. He gave Rosie her breakfast and slammed around the kitchen and bathroom not caring how much noise he made or if he woke up sleeping beauty. In fact, deep down in some unacknowledged place in his mind, he wanted to wake Sherlock up, at least it would mean that he would see the git.

John was getting reading to spend a full day at the surgery feeling like he had had no weekend at all. Admittedly he had had three days off work. He had got through his usual jobs, there was food in the cupboards, he and Rosie had enough clean clothes for the week, and the flat was more or less ship shape. But compared with last weekend when there had been a trip to Scotland Yard, a party and a walk in the park John had done nothing nice at all, by which he meant that he had spent next to no time with Sherlock. John wondered if he should be worried about just how much, and how quickly his world had gone back to revolving around his flatmate. Yes, Rosie was most precious, but Sherlock came a very close second.

His efforts didn’t pay off, and by quarter to eight John conceded that he would have to leave the flat without seeing Sherlock if he was to avoid being late for work.

******

After work John and an appointment with Monsieur Henri for a final fitting of his suit, this time at his studio in Jermyn Street not at the Savoy Hotel. John was grateful for this, he had taken a dislike to Ms Dinah Shepherd, and was not keen to spend any more time in her company than necessary.

The tailors had done a marvellous job in completing the work in record time. There was a slight kerfuffle when he was at first handed a suit which turned out to have been made for a man taller than John and slimmer than Greg, but this was soon sorted out and John was given the correct suit to try on. John looked at himself in the mirror and decided he had never owned such a beautiful suit, not even for his own wedding. It fitted him perfectly and he reflected that it was most likely Dinah’s influence (and money) rather than Greg’s that had produced the suit at record speed. With just the hems and a little top stitching left to finish, Monsieur Henri’s assistant took a note of the Baker Street address and agreed it would be delivered on Thursday.

Satisfied that this was one thing he could cross off his list, John sent Greg a text to let him know (he had given up trying to call Greg, the phone always went unanswered, and even his emails were bouncing back). Then John made his way home, taking a short detour to collect Rosie from the nursery.

******

John was pleased to find Sherlock at 221b when he finally arrived home, but he wasn’t the only one. Rosie was delighted, it appeared she too had missed Sherlock over the weekend. Sherlock took Rosie from John and helped her out of her coat and shoes. She clung to his leg as he did this and said as she had when she had first started talking “Sher… up.”

Sherlock did as he was told, and lifted Rosie into his arms before gently sitting in his chair with her on his lap.

“Now Watson,” John heard Sherlock say, “How was your day at nursery?”

Rosie was beginning to get quite a vocabulary and as John pottered around, changing out of his work clothes, and getting Rosie’s supper ready he heard little snippets, _Miss, boy, bad_. Obviously, some incident that had incurred the teacher’s wrath.

John took their collection of takeaway menus from the fridge door, “What do you say to a takeaway, seeing that we didn’t have one on Friday? I’ve a mind for Thai this evening but I could be persuaded on Chinese, or there’s that Lebanese place where we had that Sayadieh you liked.”

Sherlock looked down. “I am going out shortly.”

John couldn’t hold in his curiosity, “Off out again? I have hardly seen you this week.” He immediately regretted the words; he wasn’t Sherlock’s husband. He tried again.

“Is it a case?”

“What?”

“Is it a case, that’s keeping you busy.”

“No.”

“Something for Mycroft then, you know, after his visit the other day.”

Sherlock wriggled a bit in his seat, Rosie protested.

“No, nothing like that.” Sherlock sighed, “If you must monitor all my movements, the fact is I am having dinner with Dinah.”

“Dinah?”

“Yes, Dinah, keep up John, you can hardly have forgotten who Dinah is already.”

“Greg’s Dinah?”

Sherlock gave a half laugh, “I am not sure she would appreciate being classed as a possession.”

“You’re having dinner with Dinah?”

“Why not? She is a most intriguing woman, intelligent, beautiful, funny. A woman of great poise and courage, I find her excellent company. She is alone in London, her fiancé is out of town, why shouldn’t I spend time with her? I’m not doing any harm.”

“Hang on, you sound like this isn’t the first time. Is that where you were all weekend, with Dinah Shepherd?”

“Really, John, you’re not my keeper, I am of age and don’t need your permission to go out.”

John agreed but noted that Sherlock had sidestepped his question.

“Fine, shelve the takeaway until tomorrow night, in fact I saw in the paper that violinist you like is doing a live concert on BBC4 at nine o’clock tomorrow, we could watch it together.”

For a second, Sherlock’s face seemed to display something like regret, but then he rallied.

“Tomorrow evening, I’m taking Dinah to see _Follies_ at the _Olivier.”_

“ _Follies_?”

“Yes, John,”

“ _Follies_ , as in the musical by Stephen Sondheim?”

“Yes, what other _Follies_ could I mean?”

“A musical?”

“Yes.”

“You do know what that entails?”

“Of course, I’m not an idiot!”

“That there will be dancing.”

“I like dancing.” Sherlock replied defensively.

“And singing, and that periodically the actors will do both at the same time. I know you, within ten minutes your ears will start to bleed, and you’ll be begging it to stop.”

“You’ve got me completely wrong John.” Sherlock replied, standing up and putting Rosie down, “I think it sounds quite jolly.”


	16. Twinkling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile in Scotland...

Greg knew the moment he opened his eyes that it had snowed again. His alarm was set for six, and he hadn’t slept through it. There was no way that light would be peeping through the hotel curtains at six o’clock on a winter morning in Scotland without there being snow outside.

His heart sank, but somehow it seemed like fate. The whole trip to Scotland felt like a conspiracy against him, the non-case of the bones discovered, the absence of any real evidence of wrongdoing, local or international, the complete lack of co-operation from the Islanders, the way Amy was more interested in monitoring his movements than investigating the crime, even the way Sally found everything so highly amusing. And now this…

He groped for the light switch and turned on the lamp, the integrated radio sprang into life.

“ _Drivers have been told not to get caught out this morning as Scotland wakes up to another day of heavy snowfall._ _People are being urged to avoid travel in the areas affected by red and amber warnings for snow._

_The Met Office has issued a red warning, which is the highest category of alert, covering Glasgow, Edinburgh, much of the Lothians, the northeast Borders, as well as parts of Fife, Perth and Kinross, Angus, Aberdeenshire, Orkney, and the Shetland Isles. Edinburgh and Aberdeen airports are closed as are the Ferry terminals in the areas effected due to ongoing adverse weather conditions._

_The red warning is expected to last from 3am on Wednesday through to 10pm on Thursday evening with amber warnings continuing across much of Scotland throughout this period and into Friday_.

 _In other news, Scottish First Minister_ …”

Greg groaned and turned the radio off. It was his last day in Scotland, he was supposed to leave the hotel at ten o’clock to begin the long journey southwards. He looked over to the corner of the room, where his suitcase stood packed, just waiting for his night things and his washbag. The clean shirt that was draped over the back of the chair, seemed to mock him for his hopes.

There was nothing for it, it was too early to call Dinah, even a helicopter wouldn’t get him out of here today. He rolled over and went back to sleep.

******

At eight-thirty Greg reluctantly joined the rest of his team in the dining room where they were all tucking into a hearty Scottish breakfast. He sat down next to Donovan and ordered a coffee from the hovering waitress.

“Cheer up Guv,” Sally said patting his hand, “as no one can get off or onto the island, we can keep our rooms, they’re not going throw us out into the snow.”

“That’s about the only bit of good news about this whole fiasco. Some of us have plans for this weekend, you know.” Greg replied morosely.

“Yes, we know.”

“So, forgive me if I don’t feel that thrilled about having a jolly in Scotland at the taxpayers’ expense rather than on my way home to London in time for my wedding day!”

“We know Sir,” Marcus replied, “but short of getting the Enterprise here with her teleporter there’s not much we can do about it. “

“We’ve had a discussion,” Sally announced, “and we have decided that as officially we are off the clock at ten, and as you missed out on a stag do being sent on this wild goose chase and as we are stuck here for at least a couple more days and there is nothing anyone can do about that, we thought you could have your stag do here, complete with stags” She waved her hand in the general direction of the mounted heads on the wall. “so, this is what we are going to do, you are going to get yourself on the outside of the full Scottish, complete with Lorne sausage and haggis, plus a nip of whiskey on your porridge.

“Then, you’re going to get changed into something much more suitable, and we are going to see the ponies, followed by a trip to the Shetland Distillery Experience, then back here for dinner and the hot tub. What do you think?”

Greg looked round at their eager faces, they were a good team, he might as well make the best of things.

“Well as my mother used to say, what can’t be cured must be endured.”

“Exactly.” Marcus replied, looking for the waitress to signal to, “let’s get you started on that breakfast.”

Greg looked round too, and in doing so, missed both Amy’s conspiratorial wink at Sally, and seeing Sally’s smile in return, eyes mischievously twinkling.


	17. Let Nothing You Dismay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a saint

John was worried. He had so much to worry about he didn’t know what to worry about first. He needed to index his worries so that he could produce a list in degrees of urgency and importance, which would enable him to prioritise worrying over certain issues ahead of others. This kind of categorisation was not John’s strong point despite being a man of science himself. Sherlock would have been of great assistance with this task. Unfortunately, Sherlock was one of the main sources of worry.

Thank goodness tomorrow was Friday, he didn’t think he could fit in work around another day of worrying, today had been difficult enough. The surgery was exceptionally busy, with the usual flu and norovirus, plus the additional bunch of idiots who had overindulged in advance of the Christmas holidays.

John pushed Rosie in her buggy, she could walk and often wanted to but at the end of the day and in the busy London streets she was better off being strapped in. The rain was coming down in its old fashion, the biting wind made the icy drops sting as they caught his face. At least Rosie was wrapped up warm and seemed happy enough despite the weather, that was one less thing to worry about. John had learnt to live with an almost constant low level of worry about his daughter ever since she was born, but this evening she wasn’t even in the top three.

******

221b was in darkness when John and Rosie finally reached the top of the seventeen steps to the little flat that they called home. It tugged at his heart strings to see Rosie walk into their sitting room and call for Sherlock, and to see her face fall when she realised that again he wasn’t there. He tried to tell himself that it was her disappointment that made him feel so down, on top of the cold and depressing day that he had had.

He sat Rosie at the kitchen table as he went about making their supper. The flat was cold and so after he had put the lasagne in the oven he said to Rosie, “shall we pop down and see Nana, then I can get some coal in for a fire?”

Rosie seemed to think this was a good idea. _Poor thing,_ John thought, _her routine was as disrupted by Sherlock’s behaviour as his was._

Fortunately, Mrs Hudson was always pleased to see them, she popped the kettle on and insisted that John had time for a cup of tea while he was there. John went and sat down with Rosie in the sitting room where the six o’clock news was on the television.

“Look’s like they are having a right old time it.” Mrs Hudson observed, bringing the tea things on a tray. She was referring to the scenes on the television, where the newsreader was covering the severe weather in Scotland. From what John could make out the airports were still closed, and the travel advice was _DON’T!_

“I’m glad you called in, you have saved me a trip upstairs, these were delivered this morning, I had to sign for them.” Mrs Hudson pointed to two rather smart suit carriers that were hanging on the back of the door, embossed with the logo of _Monsieur Henri_.

“Wasn’t Sherlock in this morning?”

“Oh no, he went out not long after you did. He’s quite the gadabout these days, isn’t he? I hope you don’t mind but I had a quick peek, you are going to look so smart. I’m pleased the Inspector has gone for a lounge suit rather than morning dress, so much more appropriate for a fourth wedding, and you’ll be able to wear it again. Though I am not sure that Inspector Lestrade’s looks quite big enough across the chest.”

John wasn’t completely sure why Lestrade’s suit had been delivered to Baker Street, although with the inspector in Scotland he supposed it made sense. Which reminded John, he had things to do this evening.

With Mrs Hudson keeping an eye on Rosie, John went out to the woodstore in the back yard. He filled a bucket with coke and another with kindling and logs ready to take upstairs. As he did so he noticed that the hessian covering Sherlock’s fungus experiment had come loose, exposing the logs inside to the elements. It looked rather pitiful and neglected, John quickly tapped it back in place. It was so unlike Sherlock to abandon an experiment, or at least one that was still thriving, that John worried again what was going on with his friend.

John took the fuel upstairs and came back for Rosie and the suits. He quickly lit the fire, and they ate their supper. John gave Rosie a bath then brought her through to the sitting room to sit by the fire for a story, holding his clean and sweet-smelling daughter on his lap John felt the most at peace for days.

Rosie fell asleep in his arms and he took her upstairs to bed, he set the monitor up and then went back down to the kitchen where he poured himself a scotch. Back in his chair in the sitting room, he took out his list, the one he had written in the pub with Greg just ten days ago, with a slight sense of achievement he struck through the word _suits_. The buttonholes would be delivered on Saturday, the rings were Greg’s department, the licence, the venue and the reception afterwards were all being taken care of by Dinah’s assistant. The only thing he hadn’t got was a groom.

John picked up his phone and dialled the number that he had cajoled out of Hopkins earlier, it rang a couple of times before a man with a broad Scottish accent answered, “Heart of Shetland Hotel…”

******

John waited a good fifteen minutes for Greg to come to the phone, but the faint hope that the officer was not in fact in the hotel but rather on the overnight train to Euston was dissipated by the sound of Greg’s voice. If John had thought that he was down, then Greg was a whole new ball game.

John in his role as best man had spent the whole day, between appointments scouring the internet for possible routes for Greg to get home. The wedding was at two o’clock on Saturday at the Guildhall in central London. There was a plane that got into Heathrow at ten past twelve, if Greg could get to Aberdeen airport for half past nine Saturday morning, and the Met blue lighted him at the other end, then he might just make it.

Greg soon put a damper on John’s plans, even a hire car and Sally, Marcus and Amy driving in shifts through the night to allow Greg his beauty sleep wouldn’t work, if they couldn’t get off the island.

John reluctantly conceded defeat.

“Have you told Dinah?”

“Left a message with Carlo, the butler, she was out.”

“She hasn’t call you back.”

“No.”

John wasn’t entirely surprised; it had taken him a week to get the hotel number.

“Have you tried phoning again?”

“Thirty-five times so far and she’s been out every one. I get the picture.”

John bit his tongue, he had a fair idea who had been responsible for Dinah being out.

“I spoke to her assistant, he’s cancelling everything, it’s a bust, John, gone to hell in a handcart.”

“Phone him back and stop him, don't give up so easily.”

“Never knew what she saw in me," Greg went on, "'m just an ordinary copper…”

John realised then that Greg wasn’t just depressed, he was plastered.

“Dinah loves you; it's you she's marrying. The snow won’t last for ever, it’s due to start thawing tomorrow, if you could just get to Aberdeen on time you could make it. 

“Come on Greg, look on the bright side, let nothing you dismay.”


	18. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another long one - in which John finally catches up with Sherlock

For an adrenaline addict, John Watson was remarkably predictable in his habits. He worked for four days a week as a G.P. in an NHS surgery in the centre of Camden, leaving Fridays free to keep on top of things at home. From the time he had moved back into Baker Street John’s Fridays had followed the same M.O., as long a lie in as Rosie allowed him, the online shop (such bliss never to have to tackle a chip and pin machine again!), followed by washing, cleaning, and some quality time with his daughter and whatever other occupant of 221 was available.

This Friday was going to be different; John knew that even before the phone call that woke him up just after six in the morning. Not just that it was the last Friday before Christmas, and all the pandemonium that that entailed but also that, as had been announced just two weeks ago, it was the day before Greg’s wedding.

Except that John had gone to bed the night before having reached the inevitable conclusion that he would have to spend the day trying to get hold of Dinah and making executive decisions regarding caterers and buttonholes. John tried to feel sorry for Greg, and Dinah, that their plans had gone so awry, but he found the whole situation so bizarre he couldn’t help thinking that a postponement would be the best thing all round. He couldn’t understand what all the hurry was in aid of anyway.

******

The first time John’s phone rang he ignored it, that is, he pretended to sleep through it. He had a sneaky feeling it might be work saying one of the other partners had called in sick. The next time he glanced at the number, didn’t recognise it and decided against answering, he hadn’t been in an accident in the last three years unless you counted kidnapping. The third time it rang, John thought perhaps the number was vaguely familiar and did answer. It was Greg.

“You were right, I shouldn’t dismay,” Greg exuberance was causing him to shout, John held the phone away from his ear. “We’re on the move, the ferry is on its way and we’re going to get on it. I’ll let you know our plans once we’re on the mainland. Thanks, John you’re a mate, can you get hold of Dinah and let her know?”

John, fully awake now, said he would do his best. “Good luck, and keep me posted… ok?”

As Greg rang off, John sprang into action, he took his to do list from the beside table, and checked what as still outstanding, he was a man on a mission.

******

By ten o’clock, when Sherlock appeared in the kitchen, John was making great strides with his list, as demonstrated by the number of items that were crossed through. Rosie was supervising John’s activity from a seat at the kitchen table where she was busy with her stickers making a card for Uncle Geg and Aunty Dinna.

“Good you’re up.” John said, stating the obvious and plonking a cup of tea in front of Sherlock, “I need your help.”

“What Tesco related crisis is it now?”

“Tesco has been delivered already.” John said with the air of satisfaction of a man who planned well ahead. “I’ve got about a hundred things you can help me with, but firstly do you mind watching Rosie while I pop out and get my hair cut.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your hair, it suits you a bit longer.” Sherlock argued.

“It’s sticking up over my ears,” John replied, “and I’m not having my photo taken like this.”.

“Why have you photo taken anyway?” Sherlock muttered, he sipped his tea and looked hopefully at the toaster.

“Greg phoned, he’s on his way home.”

“Who?”

“Gavin, it’s going to be tight, but he should reach London in time. The wedding is back on.”

Sherlock gave a start and put down his mug of tea with a bump. “I need to speak to Dinah.”

“Yes, you do, or rather her p.a. I’ve made a list for you of all the things that Dinah was taking care of… cars, licence… flowers, the wedding breakfast. I tried this morning, but I can’t get hold of anyone. You’ll have to go round to the Savoy… woah…” John put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, just as the detective started to stand up., “After I’ve got back from the barbers.”

“How long will you be?” Sherlock’s voice had an edge of whine to it.

“No more than an hour, I’m only going to Mac’s on the Edgware Road. I’ll make you some toast and get going.”

When John got back at eleven, neatly shorn, he found Sherlock missing, Rosie downstairs with Mrs Hudson and his list still on the kitchen table.

******

John spent the day becoming increasingly more irate with his git of a flatmate. He felt thwarted at every turn. Greg had phoned to say that they had arrived in Aberdeen but there were no flights or trains available. They had decided to hire a car as far as Edinburgh and to take stock when they got there. The conditions were still poor, and progress was slow. Greg sounded thoroughly fed up again while the others sounded as if the were having a wale of a time, Sally and Amy were already referring to themselves as Thelma and Louise.

John had done as much as he could, he still hadn’t spoken to Dinah, but her p.a. had called and said everything was in hand. Mrs Hudson had washed and pressed Rosie’s lavender velvet dress, and Mrs Turner had agreed to come round in the morning to do something with her hair. The whole thing was very disorganised, John didn’t even know if Dinah wanted Rosie there, but he wasn’t about to leave her out. Molly and Mrs H had both offered to keep an eye on her during his minimal best man duties.

Fed up with another evening on his own, John decided to make an early night of it. It was only just gone nine, but he had started going round the flat, turning off lights and banking up the fire when Sherlock arrived home. The cold night air had brought colour to his cheeks and his eyes sparkled, as he moved passed John to hang up his coat and scarf, the smell of the fresh frost night clung to him and John breathed it in deeply, along with the fragrance of a woman’s scent. He recognised it, from his afternoon at the Savoy.

John saw red, he had had a miserable day, come to think of it he had had a miserable couple of weeks. He wished he had never heard of Dinah Shepherd or got dragged into Greg’s matrimonial affairs. He wanted it to go back to how it was, the cases, clients, crap telly, Chinese takeaways, experiments, tea, toast and violin solos. Just the three of them, or four if your counted Mrs H which he did, against the world.

Except John couldn’t say any of that so instead he said, “Thank you for your help today.”

The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Sherlock as it might have been in the past. He looked up at John and smiled. The red mist threatened John again, but he folded his arms, he would not strike, however angry he felt. 

“Sherlock,” John began, tentatively, “we’ve known each other a few years now, we’ve been through a lot. May I speak plainly to you.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied but he didn’t meet John’s eyes.

“I don’t understand what’s come over you this last couple of weeks, you’ve no interest in cases, you’ve neglected your experiments, abandoned your old haunts. You spend all your time with this woman who, frankly, has a very chequered past, and what’s more is engaged to one of your only friends. Where were you? Out on her hen night?”

Sherlock looked down again and said nothing.

“Look Sherlock, I don’t want to make you feel bad or anything, but we both know that relationships are not exactly your forte. I hate to think of this woman making a fool of you or exploiting your inexperience for her own ends. Or coming between you and the things that are essential to you.”

Sherlock looked pointed at John’s chair, and his own.

“John, you’d better sit down, what I’m about to tell you might come as a bit of a shock. In fact, why don’t I fetch us a drink.”

Sherlock darted into the kitchen and reappeared swiftly with two glasses of scotch, John sat down and took the offered glass, he smelt it immediately, it was the _Lagavulin._

 _“_ The truth is Dinah, and I are getting married. Tomorrow.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. She’s marrying Greg.”

Sherlock continued, sounding very much like he’d prepared a speech.

“Dinah has come to the conclusion that her engagement to Inspector Lestrade was hasty, made at a time when she was beside herself with grief following the death of her husband, Major Beckworth. I have long admired Ms Shepherd and over the past two weeks that admiration has turned into something deeper. Likewise, Dinah believes that in me she has met her true soulmate. She now considers it would be unfair for her to marry Lestrade knowing that her affections are engaged elsewhere. The licence had been reissued in my name. As everything else is in place we saw no reason to wait or change the arrangements.”

“You’re crazy! Is that even legal?” John exclaimed.

“Completely, we are both free to marry. That is what kept me this afternoon, I was procuring the special licence.”

“I don’t know game you are playing, but this is Janine all over again.”

“On the contrary, that was a necessity for a case, you know the details. Whatever my actions with Janine, they have no bearing on my relationship with Dinah.”

“You don’t even like women!” John was irrational in his anger, it was no longer red but burning white inside him, it was all he could do to stop himself shaking.

Sherlock was ready with his answer. “That is simply untrue, you yourself have endless harped on about how affected I was by my association with The Woman. It’s not so long ago that you were encouraging me to take that relationship further, ‘it would complete me as a human being’ were the words you used if I recall correctly.”

“But she was supposed to be dead, or at least out of the country.”

“Exactly, no wonder you considered her a fit mate for me. She was also a lesbian and a dominatrix neither of which added to her availability. Dinah has all Irene’s best qualities, intelligence, courage, vitality and beauty with, thank goodness, none of her flaws. You were married once, so marriage was acceptable for you but not for me. ‘Do something while there’s still a chance’ do you remember, you said that to me too. Well, that’s what I am doing, A true friend would be happy for me.”

John looked at him then, his beloved friend, standing in front of him, a little proud, a little afraid, and the anger melted away; John loved him very much, this oddball, and he wanted what ever it took for him to be happy.

“You really mean it, don’t you?”

“Yes, I really do, two o’clock tomorrow, Dinah will be my bride… You will do the honours…?”

“The honours?”

“As my best man. Sherlock Holmes can hardly get married without John Watson at his side.”

John had the inexplicable feeling that he was about to cry and took a large swig of his scotch to wash down the lump in his throat.

“It will be my privilege.”

“Excellent! That is settled then, and Rosie can wear her lilac velvet. It’s only a small do, just you and few close friends, and we’ve solved one problem for you, we’re not expecting gifts.”


	19. Faith

John woke on Saturday morning with a deep sense of foreboding, it was not a feeling that he was unused to when it came to Sherlock Holmes, it had been there in the early years when Mycroft had warned of ‘danger nights’, and in abundance during those dark days when the press had had their knives out for the detective; it had reached its peak on the tarmac as he had bid farewell to Sherlock not knowing if he would ever see him again.

After Sherlock had broken the news to John the night before, they had called down to Mrs Hudson who had come up to flat B to join them. Mrs Hudson, who had done and seen much more in her life than John could begin to imagine had not batted an eyelid when Sherlock informed her of his impending marriage, and that he had usurped Inspector Lestrade in Dinah’s affections. She seemed to have no difficulty in accommodating the change of plans, but then, aside from the groom there weren’t any.

When Sherlock had disappeared into his bedroom to change into his pyjamas and dressing gown, Mrs Hudson had treated John to her pertinent thoughts on the subject of marriage. Not knowing that Sherlock had also endured the same speech, John found himself thoroughly depressed by the story of Mrs Hudson’s bridesmaid.

“Marriage changes you; you would know that John having been married yourself.”

Though it was when Sherlock returned and Mrs Hudson, who had already had her herbal soother for the night, got on to the subject of her and the late Frank Hudson’s compatibility in the bedroom that John drew a halt to the proceedings. It might be the eve of Sherlock’s wedding but there was no need for that kind of talk.

“Time to turn in I think Mrs H, heavy day tomorrow.”

Having made this announcement there was nothing for it but to all say goodnight and go to bed.

******

Despite John’s misgivings there was no time for brooding; Rosie to his great relief had actually slept in for once, and when Mrs Hudson had come up at nine, John was only just making his first pot of tea. Mrs Hudson immediately took over.

“We’ll leave little Rosie till last,” she said, producing bacon and eggs from their fridge, “less chance of her getting untidy again. Now you go and take your shower and wake the groom on the way. I’ll do us all a good breakfast, that’s the problem with weddings, all that standing about and no knowing when you’ll next eat.”

John did as he was told, and when he came back Rosie was tucking into ‘han heg’ and Sherlock was engaged in a futile attempt not to be force fed a cooked breakfast.

“Aren’t there any biscuits?”

******

Somehow, they got through the morning, Sherlock hogged their bathroom for one of his epic showers, so Rosie used Mrs Hudson’s downstairs. Mrs Turner came over and coaxed Rosie’s fine curls into a little top knot and added two pretty slides. Finally, they were ready, Mrs Hudson in a magnificent hat not unlike the one she had worn to his wedding, John seemed to remember and Rosie in her best dress which thankfully still fitted her.

When Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, they all gasped, he was wearing a suit of a very dark grey so that it was almost black, identical to the one John had on, with a white shirt and of all things, a lilac tie. John couldn't remember having seen Sherlock in a tie since his own wedding. John raised an interrogative eyebrow; Sherlock had the grace to blushed and confessed.

“Dinah had asked me to escort her down the aisle, before… she wanted all the men of the party to be dressed alike, hence the suit.”

There was no time for more explanations, as Molly and Simon chose that moment to arrive, they were to go ahead in the first taxi with Mrs Hudson and Rosie. John wondered if Sherlock had informed Molly of the change in arrangements, despite the comforting presence of Simon, it was still likely to be a shock. However, Molly seemed fairly composed, she picked up Rosie’s travel bag, while Simon took Mrs Hudson’s arm.

“You know where you’re going,” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” Simon replied.

Then it was just the two of them, him and Sherlock, waiting for their cab.

“John…” Sherlock began.

“It’s ok, you don’t have to say anything.”

“She’s wrong you know, marriage doesn’t have to change anything, you’ll still be living at 221b, you’ll have more room once I’ve left, and I’ll still be going on cases, and needing help with clients. I hope I’ll still be welcome to come round.”

“Of course, you will, one for all and all for one.” Sherlock looked blank, “Never mind, here’s our cab.”

They got in and John began to give the address of the Guildhall, but Sherlock quickly gave another address that John didn’t quite catch.

“I forgot to tell you… Dinah and I thought it might be wise to find an alternative venue.”

“In case Greg turned up and punched your lights out.”

“Something like that.” Sherlock admitted.

“Have you spoken to him?”

“No, but Dinah has. He and Donovan were on a flight from Edinburgh this morning.”

John did not spare much sympathy for Greg, privately he thought the inspector had dodged a bullet. For all his reservations about Sherlock’s marriage he had to admit that he and Dinah were far better suited than she had ever been to Greg. At some point, when the dust had settled, he would make his peace with the man.

******

John laughed when the taxi drew up at the Savoy, “You weren’t worried that Greg would come looking for Dinah at her hotel?”

“As far as reception are concerned, she has checked out. It was the best we could do at short notice. Fortunately, one of the smaller rooms was available, and the officiant was willing to relocate to this venue.”

Sherlock led the way to the marriage room, where Mrs Hudson, Rosie, Molly and Simon were already seated listening to a string quartet. Of Sherlock’s parents there was no sign which John thought was probably understandable, there was no sign of the British Government either, which was not.

“No Mycroft?” John whispered.

“In Brussels,” Sherlock replied.

The celebrant and his clerk were setting up their paperwork. Sherlock went over and spoke to him and then came back. John glanced at his watch; it was three minutes past two. At that very moment, the doors behind them opened and the string quartet started up _Pachelbel’s canon_.

******

John noticed Sherlock’s eyes light up as Dinah walked towards him, breathtakingly beautiful in ice-blue lace. John nudged him forward to meet his bride, and they stood together, with Dinah’s p.a. who had escorted her in on her left.

The celebrant, a tall, heavy set man in his sixties, with iron grey hair, thick horn rimmed glasses and a distinct stoop addressed the couple on the seriousness of the step they were about to take then gave them the opportunity to exchange vows, which as John expected were brief and to the point.

Sherlock went first. “Dinah, the moment I met you, I knew you were the only woman I could ever marry; I promise to be the man that I see now in your eyes, today, tomorrow, and for always.

“Today we move from I to we, Dinah, take this ring as a symbol of my decision to join my life with yours until death should part us.”

Then Dinah turned to Sherlock

“Sherlock to be honest, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. I have not only found my life-long companion, the lover of my heart, but my soul mate, someone who turns my grey skies into blue.

“Today we move from I to we, Sherlock, take this ring as a symbol of my decision to join my life with yours until death should part us.”

The legal part was next as the celebrant asked firstly Sherlock and then Dinah.

“Are you William Sherlock Scott Holmes free, lawfully, to marry Dinah Elisabeth Shepherd?”

“I am.”

“And are you Dinah Elisabeth Shepherd free, lawfully, to marry William Sherlock Scott Holmes?

“I am.”

The celebrant took them aside to sign the register, while the string quartet knocked out something that sounded a little like Mozart. John signed his name beneath Sherlock’s as witness, and the p.a did the same. The signature was unreadable, and John still didn’t know the man’s name.

The celebrant said something corny about the ‘new Mr and Mrs Holmes’ and the briefest of kisses took place. The string quartet burst into _The Queen of Sheba_ and the whole ceremony was over in less than ten minutes.

Sherlock and Dinah led the way into a small lobby where champagne was being served. Dinah was waylaid by Mrs Hudson and Rosie who was presenting her with a silver horseshoe. Sherlock took a glass and handed it to John, as he did so the gold ring on the third finger of Sherlock’s left hand caught the light and this more than anything else in the whole ceremony brought home to John the reality of what had just occurred.

“You did it, you really did it, you got married!”

“What else did you think was going to happen when you came here today?”

“I don’t know,” John shrugged “I suppose I still wasn’t entirely convinced you weren’t up to one of your tricks.”

“Really John, you wound me.” Sherlock sounded affronted. “Oh, ye of little faith!”


	20. Sweets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wedding Breakfast

After the champagne, the wedding party made their way to Dinah’s suite where a hot buffet was to be served. John couldn’t help comparing Sherlock’s nuptials to his own wedding and wondered if he would have gone for so much fuss if he had truly known who he was marrying. Something must have shown on his face as Molly came up to him and slip her arm in his.

“Strange day?”

“Yes,” John agreed, “a little.”

“I hope that they will be happy, it’s odd to think of Sherlock in love, but he can’t take his eyes off her, can he?”

They both looked over to where Sherlock was standing with Mrs Hudson and Rosie, he was clearly watching Dinah who was talking to her p.a. He undoubtedly looked oblivious to anyone else in the room.

The wedding breakfast was something of a subdued affair, comprising of so few guests, but the food was plentiful and excellent. John said a few words and found himself surprisingly emotional as he handed over his best friend to Dinah’s keeping. Dinah also made a speech, accepting the gift with great warmth and humour. For an instant John caught a glimpse of what Sherlock saw in her.

The only sour note was when Carlo, the butler, appeared carrying a small, rectangular box, wide but only a couple of inches deep.

“This was left at reception for you, Madam, Sir.”

Dinah took the box, “Turkish delight, how bizarre.” She handed the card to Sherlock who read out loud, “To Mr and Mrs Holmes. No hard feelings, just soft centres, ‘G’.”

Dinah seemed quite flustered at this but quickly composed herself and said to her guests, who had stopped talking to observe what was happening. “Well, I supposed that is very gracious, under the circumstances,” before giving the box back to Carlo and saying, “we won't have it now, put it in my room, for later.”

******

At four o’clock Dinah announced that she was going to go and change, and John recognised that as their cue to leave. Molly and Mrs Hudson were already three sheets to the wind, the champagne having flowed rather freely. Simon was trying unsuccessfully to herd them together as a precursor to going home. The p.a. (whose name John still didn’t know) had gone back to work ages ago and Rosie was curled up on one of the sofas sound asleep. John’s reconnaissance revealed that one person was missing.

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asked.

“I think he went outside,” Molly replied.

“Outside?” John said in surprise, “Whatever for?”

Molly looked blank but Simon, standing out of her line of vision, wordlessly lifted the index and middle fingers of his right hand to his pursed lips, and then, holding the fingers slightly apart, moved them back and forth from his face in the universal signal for smoking a cigarette.

John nodded, that made a kind of sense. He knew that Sherlock was still tempted to fall into his old habits and had a supply of patches in the bathroom cabinet of the flat. But John also knew that Sherlock had been scrupulous about not smoking or indulging in any prohibited substances since he and Rosie had moved back to Baker Street.

John supposed that Sherlock might have started smoking again, perhaps the prospect of his wedding night was making him nervous. John quickly shook his head to banish that thought, it was not an image he wanted to conjure with. As he did so, a different image flashed into his head. Sherlock had a very smart vintage Dupont lighter, he had had it for years, gift from a grateful client. John could swear he had seen that lighter on Sherlock’s desk when they had left Baker Street earlier.

John’s sense of uneasiness grew, and he turned to thinking about the gift Dinah and Sherlock had received, the Turkish Delight. An odd thing to send as a wedding present, particularly to a woman like Dinah. John had known a lot of women, as he was loath to confess, he had had girlfriends on three continents. He also knew quite a bit about body types; there were some people who were naturally very slender and there were those who really had to work at it. He was pretty certain that Dinah fell into the latter category; she probably hadn’t eaten a superfluous carb in over a decade whereas Sherlock… Sherlock’s sweet tooth was legendary.

And soft centres… was just wrong. You might say that about a box of chocolates, but not rose and lemon Turkish Delight. In fact, the entire message bothered John… _no hard feelings just soft centres…_ It was very slick, almost poetic, far too eloquent to have been written by Greg…

John made up his mind, if he was mistaken, he would deal with the consequences. He looked over to where Simon was manfully still trying to round up Molly and Mrs H, _hadn’t Molly said he followed John’s blog._

“Simon,” John called urgently, “Vatican cameos!”

Simon’s head flew up, instantly alert, and he dropped Molly’s handbag.

“Simon,” John said again, “with me.” He turned and started to run through the suite until he reached Dinah’s bedroom door, Simon close on his heels.

John grabbed the handle, turning it to and fro, but it didn’t open. _Locked!_

“Dinah,” John shouted, banging on the door, “Sherlock! Are you in there? Can you hear me?

“Don’t eat the sweets!”


	21. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wedding - The Aftermath

John banged on the bedroom door with his fists and shouted Sherlock’s name again, there was no answer. Simon with more presence of mind than was generally found in a boyfriend of Molly’s, turned to John, and said, “together!”

John reacted immediately, and praying that he wasn’t horribly mistaken, and that Sherlock and Dinah hadn’t locked the door in order to have some ‘alone time’, he and Simon rushed at the door. The lock gave on their second attempt.

They burst into the huge bedroom and were greeted by the sight of Dinah, lying face down on the bed with Sherlock kneeling over her and for one horrible moment John thought he had interrupted the start of the honeymoon. When his senses caught up with his eyes, he could see quite clearly the room was in disarray, the covers pulled from the bed and the Turkish delight scattered over the floor. But this was not caused by the throes of passion, Sherlock had one knee in the small of his wife’s back and was pinning her arms to the bed, while she was flailing around trying to evade him, kicking her legs up behind her to try to tip him off. Sherlock at some point had taken off his tie, possibly with the intention of binding her arms together but Dinah was putting up more of a fight than he had anticipated.

On their entrance Sherlock had briefly looked up, he smiled at John and said, “What kept you?”

It was a bad move on Sherlock’s part as seeing that he was distracted, Dinah slipped from under him and grabbed a hypodermic syringe from where it lay abandoned on the bedside table.

“I think not, Mrs Holmes,” John said, and produced his gun from the waistband of his trousers.

After this, matters deteriorated for Dinah Shepherd very quickly, the gun persuaded her to drop the syringe back down, and she took the opportunity to faint. Sherlock tied her arms together with his tie and John sacrificed his to tie her feet. Simon was dispatched to see that Molly and Mrs Hudson kept out of the way and to phone Hopkins and bring her to the scene.

******

John kept his gun trained on Dinah as they sat and waited for the police, and Sherlock filled him in on what had happened while he was supposedly outside for a cigarette.

“I had suspected Dinah the moment I found out about her from Mycroft. To lose one husband may be unfortunate, to lose a second tragic, but three, three looks suspiciously like an inside job. I made up my mind to court her, to see if she would regard me as a better prospect than a senior policeman. Particularly when she discovered how wealthy I am. When I made a will in her favour yesterday, I effectively signed my own death warrant.”

John spluttered and Dinah groaned but did not appear to wake up. Sherlock went on.

“Dinah is a magician and a brilliant one. The key to the profession of magic is misdirection, and these murders are a masterpiece of misdirection. She murdered her first husband, Manny, otherwise known as the _Great Shalmaneser_ , and put Ferdie Gautier in the frame. She used Sir Wilfred to promote her career and killed him once she could no longer avoid marrying him. Robert Beckford stood trial for that. Then Robert Beckworth's death was disguised as the suicide of a man who couldn't live with his guilt. The murders were meticulously thought out, just like her illusions, she would create a cast iron alibi for herself, and a leave clues that pointed at an obvious suspect, that was her art of misdirection. A suspect so obvious that suspicion never fell on her even if there was never a conviction.

“The rivalry between myself and Lestrade provided Dinah with the suspect for my murder.”

“The poisoned Turkish delight. She knew you would eat it.”

“There was nothing wrong with the Turkish Delight, she ate the piece I gave her plus two more, although she was very insistent that I ate some too. The poison was in the syringe, she planned to inject me quickly after I had eaten enough to show in my stomach contents. Once I was dead or at least dying she would spread the poison, in powder form possibly mixed with icing sugar on the remaining Turkish delight. It would be so obvious that a puncture mark would easily be overlooked or considered insignificant.

“However, unlike her previous husbands I was on my guard, and she did not allow for the wall mirror in which I was watching her, so I was able to anticipate her move… Ah here are the police now. Let’s leave them to it.”

******

John and Sherlock went back into the reception room of the suite to join the rest of the party. Molly and Mrs Hudson had sobered up quickly at the sight of the police taking Dinah into custody.

“Seriously, John?” Molly said. “You brought a gun to Sherlock’s wedding?”

“Of course, he did,” Mrs Hudson answered for him, “It was Sherlock’s wedding.”

John ignored them, he knew they were in for fair amount of hanging around and rang the bell for tea. No-one felt like talking much, but after an hour Hopkins came out and said that everyone apart from John and Sherlock could go.

John caught Simon asked him, “Could you see that Mrs Hudson and Rosie get home? I have a feeling we are going to be here for some time.”

Simon agreed, and after some fussing and a little low-grade grizzling from Rosie they left. John who had had enough of the suite, said he would see them off and after clearing it with the constable on the door Sherlock went downstairs too.

The doorman secured a taxi for Mrs Hudson, Molly, Rosie and Simon, and it appeared they were all going back to Baker Street for supper. As the taxi disappeared along the Strand, John and Sherlock stood in silence in the cold night air neither wanting to go back inside just yet.

“Do you think there will be enough to convict her?” John asked.

“Her fingerprints will be on the syringe; they may trace the box of sweets to her. Robert Beckworth’s parents have a dossier. I think there will be a case.”

“What do you think was in it?”

Sherlock didn’t ask what he meant, “Some kind of highly concentrated opiate, possibly mixed with something else. Adaptable enough to be injected and also to appear as confectioners’ sugar.”

“Would it have killed you?”

“I imagine she knew what she was doing.”

John bristled and he clenched his hands into fists, “Why do you always have to do it?” he spat out. “Why is it always your life on the line? You know how important you are, to me, to your mum and dad, Mrs H, even Mycroft.

“What do you think it is like for me to know one day I am going to have to tell Rosie that you’re not coming home. That one day you won’t be clever enough or quick enough…”

“John… I…”

“Shut up. What if she hadn’t tried to be smart? What if she’d gone for a bullet instead of poison? I couldn’t have saved you then.”

“I was never in danger, John.”

“You are always in danger, Sherlock, that’s the problem, you’re always in danger and you always will be while you count your life as worthless, and there’s nothing I or anyone can say or do to make you think differently.”

John clenched and unclenched his fists again, “I need to walk.”

“What? Where are you going?”

“Crazy, Sherlock, I am going crazy.”

With that John turned and strode down Savoy Lane and vanished into the darkness.


	22. Friends and Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile...

Greg’s plane touched down at Heathrow Airport just before one o’clock on Saturday lunchtime, he looked out onto the grey, wet tarmac and thought that he had never been so glad to see anywhere as London, for all her dismal winter plumage.

He remained in his seat, there was no rush. After Dinah had finally returned his calls the evening before, only to inform him that the wedding was cancelled (or rather his wedding, apparently hers was still going ahead), the rest of his team had decided there was no need to join the desperate exodus out of Edinburgh but instead to wait for a flight the next morning. Decision made; they had dragged Greg to the nearest bar.

Thus, it was a still mildly hungover, sleep deprived and not exactly fragrant Inspector Lestrade who collected his bag from the overhead locker and left the plane. Marcus lived in Hounslow so could practically walk home from the airport, but Amy and Sally both joined Greg on the Heathrow Express back to Paddington.

Greg bid them farewell and went off to the underground to take the tube back to Streatham. It was a discouraging thought, his flat was depressing at the best of times, he supposed that he would have to unpack and try to make the place liveable again, but not until he had slept at least until Boxing Day and before that there was someone he needed to see. In the distance the clock of St Mary’s stuck the quarter hour. Dinah and Sherlock would be married by now he guessed; the whole situation seemed surreal. He wondered if he should feel angry, but instead he felt relieved. Washed up, foolish and old… granted… but mostly relieved.

******

However tired he was, he could not afford the luxury of sleep, not yet. At his flat Greg brewed the strongest cup of black coffee as he could possibly stand and went off to have a shower. Once he was washed and shaved and dressed in fresh clothes, he began to feel livelier. He prised two slices of bread off a frozen loaf and made toast which he washed down with another industrial strength cup of coffee. As an afterthought he brushed his teeth, checked his phone for a text message and headed back into the city.

The text message apprised him of the whereabouts of the person he needed to see; it helped to have an informant on the inside. Greg took a cab, despite the expense, he was too knackered to endure another jaunt on the tube.

At his destination Greg paid off the cab and made his way through the porticoed doorway that was so familiar to him. He made his enquiries of the concierge but to his surprise was told that the person he was looking for was not in the building. Greg was about to flash his ID, not that he genuinely thought it would get him past security who at the very least were SAS trained. But he was spared the embarrassment of trying as at that moment the very person he was looking for came through the door. Or at least he could tell from their build and something in their expression who they were, nothing else gave it away. Greg stared open mouthed in shock, then as all the pain, frustration and misery of the last ten days fell away, he burst out laughing.

******

Greg followed Mycroft to his private rooms on the first floor of the Diogenes Club. Mycroft was extremely discombobulated to be seen at such a disadvantage and made his excuses as soon as he could and went to change. Greg who had come to know the set up very well over the past couple of years thought about helping himself from the drinks’ cabinet, but then thought better of it and rang down for tea.

Mycroft returned shortly with his dignity restored, he was wearing his most ridiculously formal suit and the blankest of expressions. _His battle dress_ , Greg thought, _this did not bode well_. Still, he was there for answers and he wasn’t leaving until he got them.

“I thought you might have been at a wedding.”

“I might have said the same of you.” Mycroft replied, his tone sharp.

“Nonsense! You knew with absolute certainty that would not be the case. That pantomime up in Scotland had your sticky fingerprints all over it. Though quite how you controlled the weather beats me.”

Mycroft didn’t bother to deny his involvement, “Heavy snow was forecast.”

“Weather forecasts are notoriously unreliable.”

“Not mine.” Mycroft replied. “Although as a precaution, I took DI Donovan into my confidence and you may have realised by now that Amy Smith is my employee. Had the weather improved before it did, they would have intervened.”

“Intervened? How? Locked me up, thrown away the key?”

“Possibly.” Mycroft sounded bored.

“You went to all that trouble, to stop me from getting married.”

“I had my reasons, now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.” Mycroft turned away and walked over to his desk.

“What reasons?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“What reasons?”

Mycroft glanced at his watch, “There seems no harm in telling you now. Ms Shepherd is likely to be arrested very shortly for the murder of Major Robert Beckworth, Sir Wilfred Veneering and her first husband, Emmanuel Leibowitz, and for the attempted murder of my brother Sherlock.”

“Seriously?”

“Why would I be anything else… despite our differences I considered your life was still too precious to be forfeited if I had the power to prevent it. Sherlock was far better equipped to deal with the likes of Dinah Shepherd.

“Now I really must get on.” Mycroft picked up a piece of paper from the desk and began to study it carefully.

Greg ignored the hint, he wasn’t finished, not by a long shot. “You know you could have just asked me.”

Mycroft looked up, “I’m sorry, asked you what?”

“Asked me not to marry Dinah, taken me into your confidence, all of it.”

Mycroft blinked, “Asked you… how?”

“Simple, you could have said ‘Dinah Shepherd is a serial killer, don’t marry her’.”

“Ah, I was not convinced of her murderous proclivities at the time of your engagement. Sherlock only discovered the irrefutable evidence during his courtship.”

“Then you could have said ‘Gregory, don't get married, that is all it would have taken.”

Mycroft didn’t reply but he replaced the paper on the desk.

“Two years, Mycroft. Two years of surviving on the crumbs of affection you could spare me from your work and your country. You’re the one who dictated the terms of our relationship, kept me in my place. I know why my security service code name is Justin, Anthea let it slip… it stands for ‘Mr Just in for the weekend’. That’s why we split Mycroft, I never expected to be your top priority, but I had hoped to make it into the top ten.”

“People change, Gregory. We became involved at a time when I was particularly vulnerable.”

“I know, Mycroft, I could say the same about myself and Dinah. But what you and I had together was good, Mycroft, I miss it… hang on… you said you didn’t know about Dinah when you sent me to Scotland… so you tried to split us up anyway. Mycroft were you jealous?”

Mycroft blushed to the roots.

Greg almost gave a whoop, “You were, you were jealous!”

“I deny it.”

“How much did it cost, that jaunt to Scotland, the bones, the local force, the hotel? Which department’s budget did you blow on that?”

“I admit I was not happy with the idea of you marrying anyone else.”

“All right then, marry me.”

“I don’t find that amusing.”

“I’m not being funny. I want more, if you do too, then let’s get married.”

“Really Gregory. So soon after you proposed to another?”

“Well, in fact Dinah proposed to me. I take your point, but I mean it. Marry me.”

Mycroft didn’t move, he was scarcely breathing, his face a picture of shock, he was silent for so long Greg wondered if he should call someone. Finally, Mycroft spoke.

“Very well… there are a couple of things we better get straight first. A – I want children… and B – If anyone asks… I'm the pretty one.”

Greg crossed the room in a stride, took Mycroft into his arms and kissed him thoroughly. He appeared he was engaged to the British Government, _how on earth was he going to explain that to his friends and family_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I ought to offer a prize to whoever is first to identify who Mycroft is quoting at the end of this chapter.


	23. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there...

The police kept Sherlock hanging around for another two hours, he suspected they were doing it deliberately as punishment for the fact that John had skipped, although Carlo, the butler, keeping everyone supplied with tea and cakes might have been a contributing factor.

Finally, the Investigating Officer let him go, and Sherlock took a cab back to Baker Street, it was a filthy night, cold, wet and dark, and matched his mood exactly. He felt none of the elation that he usually felt at the satisfactory conclusion of a case. Yes, he had been the means of bringing Dinah Shepherd to justice, but he had achieved this at the expense of his relationship with his closest friends. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly and most importantly John had all been taken in by his subterfuge and it made him feel very uncomfortable. Sherlock twisted the thin gold band on the ring finger of his left hand round a little. Dinah had bought it and ironically Sherlock thought it suited him rather well.

He removed the ring and slipped it into his jacket pocket, at least he had gained a rather nice new suit out of it.

Sherlock stepped out of the taxi in Baker Street and looked up at the building. The flat appeared to be in darkness not even the lights of their little Christmas tree were on. Mercifully, the door knocker was still in its correct alignment, so Sherlock let himself without misgivings. The door to Mrs Hudson’s flat was wide open and he could hear music and laughter, some kind of party was underway. For some uncharacteristic reason Sherlock had a sudden wish not to be alone, so he followed the sound of voices into her sitting room.

Mrs Hudson was her favourite chair, a glass of sherry in one hand and a herbal soother in the other. Simon was on the couch, with Molly practically sat in his lap holding a sleeping Rosie who at some point had been changed out her finery and into her pyjamas. In front of them on the coffee table was an empty bottle of red wine and two glasses and a pile of empty plates and cartons that indicated a takeaway had been consumed. In the other chair was John, his glass of wine still in his hand, obviously entertaining.

“Amazing…I didn’t have a clue… only seen him wear a tie once in eight… oh hello you.”

Sherlock had the impression that John’s storytelling had concerned him, but he was too subdued to be flattered, what he really wanted was for the day to be over, and to be safely behind their front door. But he needed John and Rosie to be there with him.

Just as this longing was becoming unbearable, Molly yawned, “I’m sorry, its been a long day, too much food on top of too much booze. I think we’d better make tracks.”

John sprang up to take Rosie from her, there was a bit of fussing about the washing up, but Simon took everything out to the kitchen and Mrs Hudson said she would take care of it in the morning. They all trooped out into the hallway to say their goodbyes, John thanked Simon again for his assistance while Molly leant up to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re not married to that woman…” she giggled, “except… I suppose you are.”

******

In 221b John took Rosie straight upstairs, while Sherlock drew the curtains and put a match to the kindling in the fireplace. Once the wood had caught, he tipped a little coal on and put the guard in place before going into his bedroom to change out of his suit and into his pyjamas and dressing gown. When he came back, he found that John had also changed before coming downstairs and was in a pair of his oldest jeans and a well-worn jumper. It seemed that comfort was the order of the night.

“Tea?” John asked, Sherlock shook his head. “We saved you some dim sum if you’re hungry.” Again, Sherlock shook his head.

“The police were looking for you.”

“I know, Stella Hopkins phoned, they’ll send someone round in the morning for a statement.”

“They weren’t very happy that you left.”

“I imagine, but I needed to put some distance between me and you, and the police and my unlicenced firearm as well. Can’t expect either Mycroft or Greg to keep getting me out of trouble on that score.”

“Fair enough.”

They were quiet for a while, both staring at the flickering flames of the fire, then Sherlock said.

“How did you know to bring your gun to the wedding?”

“Experience. You should never get involved with women, you always come off worst.”

Sherlock bristled, “I wouldn’t say your track record was any better.”

John shrugged, he didn’t seem disposed to argue, he merely inclined his head towards the baby monitor. “It’s two way.”

Sherlock looked at the monitor too. “Your point is?”

“We can hear Rosie in her bedroom while we are sitting here.”

“I know.”

“We can also talk to her in her bedroom.”

The penny dropped, “but we switched it off!”

“One way, you muted me, that’s all.”

“You heard my conversation with Mycroft?”

“Not everything, you were speaking quite low, but I heard enough.”

“You never said.”

“It’s not very often I have one up on the Holmes brothers. I didn’t hear what you were up to, but I heard enough to know that you were up to something. I gathered Mycroft had enlisted your help to separate Greg from Dinah Shepherd. I assumed he knew that she was behind the deaths of her first three husbands and wanted to save Greg from a similar fate. I was always on my guard from then on I never thought you would go as far as to marry her.”

“It was more complex than that, but that’s not my story to tell. It wasn't until I started to court Dinah that the extent of the danger Lestrade was in became clear. I had planned to come between them, to cause her to split with him, and then finish with her. Except when I investigated her past, I realised just how dangerous she was.

“I had deduced that Dinah Shepherd was not a native English speaker, her first husband’s given name was Emmanuel Leibovitz, I traced his birthplace to a small town in what used to be East Germany. I tested my theory that Dinah might also be German by deliberately misremembering the German folk song that we know as ‘O Christmas Tree’, she couldn’t stop herself correcting me.

“This led me to a coroner’s report for Klaus Mühlbach, from Hamburg, who had died on his wedding night, accidentally electrocuted in his bath. The name of his new wife was Dina. I obtained a copy of the record from the Standesamt which gave her occupation as model and her marital status as widow.”

“You think that was her, that she did this before?”

“At least twice, before joining Herr Leibovitz in his act.”

“But never caught, not until now… that’s amazing.”

“It is fair to say that the German police are very interested in having a conversation with our Ms Shepherd. Once the British force are finished with her that is.”

“Good, she deserves everything that’s coming to her.”

John bent forward to throw another log on the fire. Sherlock though wasn’t finished.

“I must commend you on your ability to act the jealous partner, Dinah found it very convincing, and it certainly aided me in the role I had to play.”

“I was jealous.”

“What?”

“I was jealous. Just because you were acting a role didn’t mean that I wasn’t jealous of the time you spent with Dinah. Particularly when you compared Dinah to _That Woman_ , I was afraid that you would genuinely fall for her, she seemed to have all the attributes you go for. I wasn’t capable of rational thought about the situation at all.

“Most of all I missed you, missed being with you, because I thought we had reached that place in our lives where things were good and were about to become better. That we were together, living together, raising a child, together and that we were a couple in all ways except one, and that you might be amenable to taking things to the next level. Instead, you went and made your vows to someone else.”

“I was very careful about my vows,” Sherlock replied quickly, “that’s why I never used the word love, because to me that word can only refer to someone else. That’s you by the way.”

“That’s good, because I love you too.”

“Good.”

John watched as Sherlock tried to assimilate all that was meant in their short conversation. He decided it might be better to show him. He stood up, took Sherlock by the hand so that he stood up too and there in the sitting room, before the fire on a winter’s night, and under the mistletoe that was still attached to the light, they shared their first kiss

After a short but very pleasant interlude where John demonstrated his expertise in kissing and Sherlock demonstrated his ability to quickly master new skills, John led Sherlock over to the couch where he proved that horizontal kissing is a great improvement on the vertical when there is a height difference between the participants. It left Sherlock shocked, breathless, and extremely excited, although he didn’t seem to be able to persuade John to go further. Sherlock wondered if that was because John was as new to this in his own way as Sherlock was. Being Sherlock, he asked, John’s reply wasn’t what he expected.

“It is ironic, I do have scruples, it has taken nearly eight years for us to get to point where we’re both on the same page and now you’re a married man.”

Sherlock sat up. “About that...”

“Don’t say there is something you haven’t told me.”

“I thought you might have recognised the celebrant. Personally, I still think he is yet to surpass his Lady Bracknell.”

“That was Mycroft?”

“Of course, we couldn’t risk a genuine celebrant. He was desperate for the role; you know how he loves dressing up. He wanted a beard, but I thought it might remind you of his Captain Birdseye.”

“But Sherlock, you have a certificate, you and Dinah signed the register.”

“Register, Smegister, that wasn’t the genuine article either, Mycroft got it mocked up by someone in his department. As it turned out it wasn’t necessary, due to Dieter Schäfer.”

“Who?”

“German husband number three, the one that got away. Dinah married him ten years ago, still alive, never divorced.”

“Then you’re unattached, just like me?”

“Yes. Does that mean we can go back to kissing now?”

John pulled Sherlock back into his arms.

“Indeed, it does Love.”


	24. Merry Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All's well that ends well.

John’s first thought as he slowly surfaced from sleep the next morning, apart from a deep sense of contentment and marvelling at the warmth and comfort of the bed was… _since when did we have a cat?_

It certainly appeared that 221b had gained a cat overnight, John could feel the weight of it lying across his chest, its fur gently tickling his nose, and its soft purring in his ear. John’s brain eventually caught up with his senses, _there was no cat at 221b_.

John opened his eyes and with a sudden rush remembered what he had to feel so happy about. There, with his arm draped across John’s chest and his head on John’s shoulder was a sleeping Sherlock, his flatmate, his friend and now his lover.

John would have given a great deal to lie in bed a while longer, maybe to spend an hour or so continuing his exploration of Sherlock’s body and mapping his erogenous zones, but a little sing song voice sounded over the monitor.

“Daaa-deee!”

John reluctantly extricated himself from Sherlock’s tentacle hold and slipped on his pyjamas and dressing gown went to see to his daughter.

******

The rest of the morning passed quietly. John was relieved that he had managed all his shopping, even his gift for Sherlock, well before Christmas Eve. He had only one thing he really wanted to achieve today, and with Sherlock still in bed, this was the ideal time to attempt it. Two uniformed officers from Paddington Green police station came round and took his statement. But he had already conferred with Sherlock as to exactly what would be said.

Sherlock emerged from the bedroom around eleven; when he saw John, he blushed the roots of his hair, but a huge smile covered his face, which became even larger when John dropped a kiss on his lips as he handed him a piece of toast.

John lit a fire and Sherlock went out to the yard to salvage his wood mould experiment. In the afternoon they bundled up Rosie and went for a walk in Regents Park. John cooked the ‘thing with peas’ for supper while Sherlock was tied up on his mobile. John could tell by the look on Sherlock’s face that the call wasn’t entirely welcome. John wondered if he should be worried. Had the police released Dinah?

Sherlock came through to the kitchen where John was stirring the peas in the pot. Sherlock still looked anxious.

“Mycroft and Glenys are getting married.” He said in disbelief.

“Glenys? I didn’t know Mycroft had a girlfriend, let alone one called Glenys. Have you met her?”

Sherlock added confusion to the anxiety on his face, “We both have, we’ve known him for years… I don’t like it. It was only two days ago he was engaged to someone else.”

“Who Mycroft?”

“No, Glenys, do keep up John!”

John thought for a moment. “Sherlock, do you mean that Mycroft is engaged to Inspector Lestrade?”

“That’s what I said.”

“That’s… unexpected… on so many levels.” John said after a while, trying to get his head round the idea.

“Not entirely, they have been skirting round each other for the best part of two years. Mycroft must have agreed terms.”

John’s mind still boggled at the thought of a relationship, an engagement no less, between Mycroft and Greg but then he had to admit it was no more unusual than the turn of events in his own love life.

“Well, that settles it, you are going to have to try to remember Greg’s name, if he is going to be your brother-in-law.”

******

Once Rosie had been tucked into bed, cosy in her new pyjamas, John slipped down to 221c and brought up the presents for her stocking. He hoped that he hadn’t gone overboard, but according to the other mums at stay and play, quantity appeared to be more important than quality. So, there were crayons and picture books, cards, stamps and stickers, DVDs and dressing up clothes. John poured them all onto the sitting room floor with the wrapping paper and got down to work. Sherlock supervised, picking up items and examining them as if he’d never seen a such wonders before. 

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, holding up a DVD of _Frozen_ , “what were you thinking?”

“Oops, sorry that was meant for you.” John replied just for the look of outrage on Sherlock’s face. “Now give that back, you’re upsetting my system.”

Finally, the stocking at the side of the fireplace was full, Sherlock ate the mince pie and John drank the milk. Sherlock looked meaningfully at the couch, but John yawned and said.

“I don’t know about you but I am ready for bed. I don’t expect madam will give us much of a lie in tomorrow.”

Sherlock had to agree that this was a most sensible idea.

******

Much later, lying in bed in the darkness, surprisingly awake for two sleepy people, Sherlock in what he had decided was his favourite sleeping position, on his left side with his arm draped over John’s chest. Quietly talking about the things that mattered to them most and the events that had brought them thus far.

John caught hold of Sherlock’s left hand and softly rubbed his thumb over the third finger.

“No ring.”

“No, I took it off.”

“Pity, I thought it suited you.”

Sherlock pulled away and made to get out of bed, “I still have it; it is in my jacket pocket.”

John pulled him back down. “No, you don’t. You’re not to wear anyone’s ring on that finger but mine.”

They were silent then in the enormity of what John had just said.

“Did you…”

“Would you…”

They spoke in chorus.

“You first…”

“Did you just suggest we got married, John?”

“It certainly sounded like it… Too soon?”

“John, I have been courting you for eight years, it’s about time you made an honest man of me.”

“Really?” John moved his head so he could kiss Sherlock on the mouth. “Now where would be the fun in that?”

In the distance the church clock began to strike – one, two… ten, eleven, twelve. _Christmas Day._

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes” John whispered pulling his fiancé closer.

“Merry Christmas, Dr Watson,” Sherlock replied, “Merry Christmas!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is very loosely based on a non-ACD ACD story called 'The Book of Tobit' which I found by accident on YouTube and has to have the silliest plot of any Sherlock Holmes story, even Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce cannot redeem it.
> 
> A big shout out once again to MissDavis for another grand set of prompts. I admit when I first looked at them a month ago I thought I couldn't get anything from them... 25,000 words later...
> 
> Merry Christmas  
> Rx


End file.
